


The Secrets I Keep

by brunette_betty



Series: Our Tangled Lives [1]
Category: Dawson's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:28:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 34,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26431159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brunette_betty/pseuds/brunette_betty
Summary: Pacey Witter returns after a five-year absence.What does it mean for Joey and Dawson’s marriage?
Relationships: Joey Potter/Pacey Witter
Series: Our Tangled Lives [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2191455
Comments: 46
Kudos: 134





	1. One

This fic I originally posted in another fandom but I think, really, this was always just a Pacey and Joey story in my head. So here is their version. 

**Setting:** Canon up until around season 3. AU from there. Joey never got on the boat.

* * *

"I've got a surprise for you," Dawson beams, tapping my nose with the tip of his finger.

There is a spring in his step as he heads for the kitchen and resumes peeling potatoes.

"Yay, you know how much I love surprises," I deadpan, rolling my eyes. Surprises were at the bottom of my favorites list, Dawson's surprises were notorious. Notoriously bad.

I save the document on my laptop, clip it shut, and rise from the couch.

My bare feet pad across the hot floorboards.

"Okay, spill," I glare at him.

"Nope," Dawson grins, focusing on the potatoes

I lean against the pantry door. Waiting. Feet tapping.

"You can groan all you want Josephine Leery. I'm not going to tell you."

I shrug, open the fridge and pull out a bottle of Pino Gris. The bottle is lovely and icy, dripping condensation over my fingers. I run my wet fingers over my neck, pour a large glass and take a delicious sip.

The cool air had been on the fritz for days, getting warmer and warmer until with a grumble and some taps, it finally died, right in the middle of summer. The 'guy' was under the pump; he couldn't get here for at least a week. It felt like a sauna. I reach for the windows to see if they would wind out any further, trying desperately to get some air-flow through our apartment.

"It's not that bad, we've got ice, we've got friends, we'll sit on the balcony. Once the sun goes down, it will cool off," Dawson was exceedingly chipper for a Friday, which of course, made me all the more cautious about his concept of a _surprise._

I collect the plates and head for the balcony, setting the places.

* * *

I sit with my feet on the chair beside me, wine in hand laughing with Jen.

Jack and Doug’s kids Ella and Lexie are playing under the table with the box of toys I'd brought in from the spare room.

"I swear to God, Joey, I'm going to kill his mother," Jen whispers _kill_ so the kids didn't hear.

"If she comes into my house again and secretly cleans while babysitting I don't know what I'm going to do. I found my plastics drawer the other day completely rearranged. She'd taken out each one RE-CLEANED it and then put it back, in perfectly fucked up little piles," covering her mouth when she realizes she forgot to whisper the ‘fuck’.

I snort.

"Thankfully Gail only comes up for the holidays. Of course, I love Gail, I do. But she can be a lot sometimes. Granted, I don’t think she’s ever re-arranged my draws… yet anyway.”

Jen waves her hand at me, "you won the mother in law jackpot and you know it."

For what Gail lacked in draw-cleaning harassment she made up for in incessant questions about the arrival of grandchildren. Her desire to become a grandparent was fierce and it laced every single contact we had with her. Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthday dinners and obligatory weekly phone calls. 

“Have you got any good news to share?” she’d ask, _every time_ , with an anticipatory glint in her eye.

Without realizing it, her question poked fingers into the open wound, twisting.

If we _had_ any news, we would certainly share it. So I spend much of my time at the moment doing my best to avoid Gail at all costs. I needed a bit of breathing room.

Dawson, Jack, and Doug chat in the kitchen while Dawson stirs pots, chops vegetables into minuscule cubes, and Jamie Oliver’s dinner with his usual flair. Dawson was many things, but he was always the host with the most. He loved any opportunity to have friends around, show off his developing cooking skills and the chance to relax and drink with friends. He loved to play happy family. Smile. Show off. He was the perfect husband. _Wasn't he?_

I certainly was far from the perfect wife.

When he was home, he cooked mostly extravagant meals. Lobster, homemade egg pasta with truffle oil, duck in a myriad of ways. I don't know where the latest food obsession has come from, but like everything, when Dawson focuses on something it becomes an all-consuming passion. 

When he was away in LA or working late nights in his office, I barely could be bothered to cook the toast before eating it. I was known at times to stand in the kitchen and eat dry ramen over the sink to catch the crumbs, with wine. 

Always with wine.

"Has he been home more lately?" Jen questions, tilting her head, watching me.

"No, not really, with the movie due for release soon, he's in the office until at least ten most nights. Sometimes he doesn't come home at all and sleeps there. Not that I mind, more room in the bed," I shrug.

Jen gives me a sideways glance.

"Really, it’s all good," I reassure her. Pouring us another wine. “Don’t look at me like that!”

"Uh-huh," she nods

Dawson had been busy readying the release of his second feature film. The first had opened to mixed reviews. It was thrown together on an extremely low budget, which he naturally blamed for its poor reception. But this time he had secured a big producer, with even bigger funds, so Dawson was convinced that this would be his ‘big hit.’ He thrived on it, the creative process, the building of this film from an idea to the screen. He threw everything he had into being a film director. He was, and would always be, a film director first, a husband second.

"Okay, so who is the mystery guest?" Jen queries, eyebrows raised.

"No clue, he won't tell me. He's running around like its Santa Claus," the kids pop their heads out from under the table looking excitedly at me.

"Sorry kiddos, don't think Santa will be coming here for dinner tonight," I grin. "But, who knows what Uncle Dawson has in store?"

The kids duck back under the table.

Jen looks at me. Into me.

"Any news?" she is tentative.

I breathe out slowly.

"Got my period yesterday," I mutter quietly, peering through the glass panels to watch Dawson in the kitchen.

Sadness fills Jen's eyes; she reaches her hand out onto mine and squeezes it. I know she wants to hug me but doesn’t want to make a scene.

I blink quickly. Clearing the sudden welling in my eyes.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I'm okay. I'm just… done, I just … " I can't finish the sentence and look out across the city. The spectacular balmy night, sun dipping, tapping the tops of the buildings of Boston.

It had been our 4th IVF round. Unsuccessful.

Three years of this. Yearning, aching, desperate to have a child. All for nothing.

Disappointment envelopes me. Warms me like a blanket. I'm used to it now.

I'd never really been that bothered about kids, especially in my 20s. It just seemed like a future that I couldn't envision for myself. Then suddenly, 31 hit. And it hit me like a freight train: the need, the deep need to have a child.

Dawson lept at the idea. Of course! A little family, he could see it instantly. Suddenly screenplay notes started popping up on the coffee table about happy families, babies. But after a year of trying, suddenly it wasn't so fun anymore. It was appointments, and injections, and mood swings and pressure. Constant worry. Financial worry. Sex wasn't fun anymore. It was loaded. It became tainted with the pressure, the expectation.

We hadn't had sex in months. 

Combining being a burgeoning director with the strains of trying for a family took its toll quickly. Half of his time was spent in LA, the other half in Boston. He wanted me there, to be by his side to be at premiers and functions, he wanted to get his face out there, to be _known._ But that was the LA scene, we’d tried living there, but it just wasn't for me. So we came back to Boston, and I delved back into my writing. 

He had his life _there._

I had my life _here._

We were attempting to coexist somewhere in the middle.

Some weeks we would barely cross each other’s paths, except when he’d fly back for the IVF rounds, then disappear again in a cloud of jet smoke. 

But like tonight, Dawson was putting on a show, a guise that we were the stable, fated couple who ate delicious food each night and laughed with our friends. Not the lonely truth.

We were barely a couple, and we couldn’t seem to make a family. It was eating away at us.

Constantly gnawing.

"I suspect that's why he thought this impromptu dinner party was a good idea."

Jen nods, "Distraction technique."

"Yeah, just not sure if he's trying to distract himself or me? Both?" I shrug.

"Can we go out to lunch tomorrow? Talk alone?" Jen asks.

I nod. Yes, that would be a much better place to talk. Not that I had anything much left in me to talk about it anymore. I was tired of it all, so tired.

"Joey," Dawson yells from the kitchen, "Where is the dressing for the salad?"

"In the fridge," I yell back.

"No, it's not!"

"Yes, it is!"

Jen smirks, knowing. She’s married, she gets it.

"Let me look," interjects Jack, always the peacekeeper. Sensing that I was not moving from my chair to come and search for said dressing, which I was _certain_ was going to be in the fridge.

"Here it is," he passes it to Dawson as I watch through the glass. Dawson smiles at him but wouldn't turn to look at me.

Ahh, married life, such a wondrous land.

There is a knock at the door. Jen and I look at each other, eyebrows raised.

"I'll get it" Dawson sing-songs and heads to the door. Everyone exchanges questioning glances.

I had to admit, I was curious.

Dawson opens the door, and it takes a moment before I could see. He’s hugging someone, and they’re slapping each other on the back. He’s tall, broad, dark brown hair, cut short. And then I see it.

Clearly.

Pacey Witter.

Jen looks at me, eyes like saucers, "Fuck," she stutters, nearly spitting out her wine.

I can't help but stare, like I've just seen a ghost.


	2. Two

We were strolling down memory lane, as you do when you’ve had a protracted pause in the complete high-school friendship group.

Pacey was the missing link it seemed.

Doug had sufficiently grilled Pacey about absence in Boston. But I knew from Jack that he'd gone back to Capeside for requisite holidays and family milestones occasionally. Despite his swift departure from the friend group, we knew he was alive and well. Just that he made no effort to see us, or make any contact. He just left, and left us in his wake.

The dinner table on the small balcony was full, full of food, bursting with bodies and wine and laughter. The children were inside, enjoying dinner on their laps while watching a movie.

"Aahhh the good times when Dawson would force us into his indie movies, dressing Pacey as a sea monster, which, let's be honest, was really just cruel and unusual punishment."

"Thankfully now he pays people to do that," Jack adds.

"My days of forced labor are behind me, but I thank you all for your contribution to the dramatic arts," laughs Dawson.

Pacey is seated next to Jack, occasionally slapping his back while recounting more wild tales from Capside's good old days - if you could possibly call them that.

He seems different. More relaxed. Confident. Calmer.

Broader, definitely broader.

Wearing snugly fit denim jeans and a plain black t-shirt. Hair cropped short, brown. The beginnings of a beard tickling his jaw. 

I sit across from him, forcing a smile onto my face. Laughing at all the old stories. 

Just smile, Joey. Don't stop smiling.

It was hot. Too many bodies, too much noise. 

Too close.

Pacey picks up his wine and faces me, properly, for the first time.

I hold my breath.

So far I’d been avoiding looking directly at him, like staring into the sun. It could only do damage.

I had to return the eye contact. Those blue eyes locked onto mine reminding me of the ocean, flecks of aquamarine in their depths like waves. They make me feel like the sailboat that I didn’t climb onto, bobbing alone, lost at sea.

"Remember that time Miss Joey Pot….. sorry, _Leery,_ sang at the beauty contest?" he grins at me, that classic, shit-eating grin. Of course, he knows how much that little performance embarrassed me.

Lines that weren't there before danced out from his eyes. Age suits him.

I roll my eyes and groan "Ugh, Pace, let's not go there. I’d much prefer to talk about your shirtless Braveheart rendition at the same contest. Now _those_ were the days" I pretend to stare off into the sunset, dramatically. “I was always happiest when you were being disqualified or suspended.”

He chuckles and drinks his wine, "Ahh Joey, still thinking about me shirtless hey? But if my memory serves, I was in fact, wearing a vest."

My face flashes hot and I laugh off his comment with a large drink.

He grins at me and changes the subject, "God, we thought life was so serious back then, we were just teenagers, acting like adults. Sex, drama, lies, tumultuous affairs with teachers," Pacey heaps more potatoes onto his plate as he speaks.

"I'm not ready to even think about our kids doing what we did at 16," Jack laments and we all laugh.

"I’m just glad I was old enough to have missed all of the melodrama from your particular little group. I was more than happy to just observe from the periphery," says Doug.

"We did alright, though, didn't we?" asks Dawson. "We all turned out okay? We're gainfully employed, all married, living reasonably normal lives," he looks around the table.

Pacey coughs.

"Yeah D, sorry to rain on your parade... no longer married," he interjects. Everyone looks at him, mouths agape.

My eyes instantly travel to his bare ring finger. _How did I miss that?_

"Shit, sorry Pacey," says Jen.

"Ahh that's okay, it's been a while now. The divorce only officially went through last Spring, but we've been separated for a long time."

Separated. Divorced. A lump forms in my throat, I try to swallow it but it won't go down.

I immediately stand and start to gather the empty plates. I need to do something with my hands. I'm clanging knives and scraping off scraps while he continues.

"Marriage just wasn't what we imagined, I think. We were too young. When I opened the first restaurant, I was there all the time. She hated that I wasn't home each night."

Jen puts her hand over mine gently and nods her head, silently instructing me to sit. I obey. I pick up my wine glass and take a desperate gulp. Pacey's eyes flick to mine again.

"What brings you back to Boston now?" asks Jack.

"My New York restaurant is all up and running now. I really wanted a new challenge and we’d spent so long here through college, it feels like my second home so I'm opening up another here. I've got a good feeling about a space on Union Street. Looking at it tomorrow."

Congratulations went around the table.

Sweat trickled down my back, slowly curving its way along my spine.

Boston. Pacey's _home_.

I sit back into my chair, letting the sweat soak into my shirt.

"So you better get used to me at dinner parties now, feel free to set me up with any stunning single mums from school," he looks to Jack and Jen hopefully.

I involuntarily snort.

"Do you take issue with that, Josephine?" he challenges.

"I just figured you'd be more interested in hitting up the colleges, looking for some fresh young meat?" I remark, it comes out a little more bitterly than I'd anticipated.

"Oh, not me. Not anymore, I've mellowed. I can't keep up with young crazy things anymore. Maybe it’s time for me to settle down. Again. Properly this time."

Jack looks at Doug, "We know a great woman from our PTA, we'll have to introduce you."

Pacey rubs his hands excitedly, “I look forward to it,” and drinks his wine.

"Geez man, when was the last time we saw you? It seems like forever!” Jack asks.

Pacey pretends to think. His eyes hit mine for a tenth of a second. It was so swift I wasn't sure it even happened. Five years. It was almost five years ago, but of course, he knows that.

"Wasn't it at the bachelor party, just before the wedding?" says Jack.

"Yeah, that sounds about right," he answers casually.

"And then you bailed on the actual wedding," cut Dawson, scolding Pacey. "Don't think we haven't forgotten that!"

Pacey looks down, picking at his fingers.

"Audrey’s mom got sick, we had to fly to LA," his answer is clipped. When he raises his eyes, I see it. Sadness, guilt, fear. It was there. Hidden. But still there.

"Well, we really missed you, man, it was a great day," Dawson stares at him, starry-eyed. Remembering.

We all nod in unison. Our wedding day was a great day, despite it all, despite the gaping hole left by the lack of a best man. I relaxed, had fun. Gave into fate and the plans we'd made.

Dawson starts clearing the plates, so I pick up my collection and follow him into the kitchen more than happy for some much-needed respite.

At the sink, I run the tap and rinse the plates. Dawson opens the dishwasher to load them in. We are like a well-oiled machine.

Rinse, stack, rinse, stack.

"I offered Pacey to stay here for a few days while he's waiting for his apartment to settle, is that okay?" Dawson looks up at me.

"Ummm sure," I am taken aback. 

I stare into the dishes like they hold the answers to the universe. This was not a good idea. 

Dawson feels my trepidation. 

"Come on. He was your best friend for years. I thought it would be good for you for both of you to spend some time together. You spend all day in this house. You need some company while I'm working. He's good fun remember? Go out, have some drinks, relax."

I turn and see Pacey standing in the doorway. Our eyes lock. 

"Seriously, I can get a hotel. I already had one lined up, but Dawson insisted," Pacey holds up his hands in surrender.

I shake my head. "No, no, of course not. We have plenty of room here. Please stay."

Pacey grins.

"Excellent, it's settled then!" Dawson seems relieved. People-pleasing until the end.

"I'll be working anyway, so I'll say out of your hair. The settlement is Thursday. I should have keys on Friday."

Dawson leaves the kitchen to collect more plates.

Pacey moves forward, leaning his hip against the counter. I hold a dripping plate in my hand.

"So we're roomies again, just like college?" He says, picking up some forks and placing them in the cutlery holder.

"It appears so. At least there's no homework this time."

"Don't disagree, homework was never my forte."

"No, your college forte was focused more on making your way through the entire sorority."

"You could say it was my major."

"With a minor in annoyance," I add.

"No wonder I graduated with honors." He adds and we both laugh, knowing that in reality he barely graduated at all. 

"You look good Pace, you look happy."

I put the plate down.

"You should see me in my chef’s whites."

"No," I put up my hand, "All good, regular clothes look _more_ than fine," oh god. Shut up, Joey.

Shut. Up.

He looks so good, different, but good. Dangerously good.

The banter, it comes so effortlessly, it falls out of my mouth. Instantly I want to shove the words back in.

Another shit-eating grin. Blue eyes, smiling.

"Right." I stack in the dripping dish, "More wine?" I grab a bottle out of the fridge and bee-line back for the balcony.

* * *

The house is quiet again, the guests all gone.

I open up the spare room, deposit some fresh towels on the bed and smooth out the sheets. Pacey follows behind with his duffel bag, looking around.

"Towels, bed, bathroom down the hall. Help yourself to anything for breakfast. I can help you with the coffee machine in the morning. It's temperamental. Sorry, there is no cool air at the moment, I'll call them again tomorrow. There is a fan." I point up. I wipe the sweat from my brow again. So hot. He doesn't seem to feel it, or if he does, it doesn't show.

"Cool thanks," he flings his duffel onto the bed and starts unzipping it.

"Okay, Goodnight," I turn to leave.

"I can leave if you want Jo. To be honest I'm not sure why I'm here. I'm not sure why I thought I was ready to come back."

"Stay Pace. You need your friends. We're here. Everyone is so glad you're back." I pause, "I'm glad you're back."

He smiles, running his hand back and forth on the crisp, clean sheets beside him.

"Okay. I'll stay."

"Good."

I want to tell him that I missed him, my friend. I missed him like a phantom limb that hasn't faded after five years. The ache of it is visceral, permeating through my entire body but, like always, I stay silent. 

I hear a cupboard opening in the room beside me and we both look to the wall, reminded that Dawson, my husband, was behind that very wall. 

It's my cue to leave. 

"Jo… "

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

I stare at him, questioning. He’s wringing his hands together, and then rubbing the back of his neck. A familiar nervous trait.

"I'm sorry I didn't call. I'm sorry I missed your wedding. I'm sorry I've been MIA. Things just got…” He hesitates momentarily. “ I needed to get myself in order, my life, my marriage." He laughs, a little bitterly "Not that much of anything could have saved that."

"It's fine."

"No, it's not. I was a shitty friend. I'm sorry." He looks sincere, sad.

I wave my hand away, "bygones." He nods.

I leave the room, walk to mine and collapse on the bed. Dawson is propped up on pillows reading through editing notes, glasses on. 

He doesn't speak, neither do I.

I put on an old t-shirt, climb under the covers and face the wall, squinting my eyes shut.

"Night," he says

"Night," I reply.

I'm scared to open my eyes because I don't want to look at the wall and think about who is lying on the other side.

* * *

Thanks for reading! I realize this is a pretty old fandom so any comments / thoughts would be appreciated. 😊


	3. Three

It's not like our friendship was complicated. It was easy. Until suddenly, it wasn't.

We had always had a dependable friendship. The boy down the creek, the girl from the wrong side of the creek, and the sheriff’s son. A strange triangle that warped and changed shape as the years went on. Throw in some trusty sidekicks in the form of Jack and Jen and you’ve got an ensemble of Capeside teenage misfits, overthinking and overanalyzing their way through life.

But Pacey and I shared a secret.

He kissed me, not once, but twice and I kissed him back. And he bought me a wall, and he wanted me, _needed_ me to ask him to stay.

I didn’t.

I let him leave, and he sailed away from Capeside, away from me. When he came back, it was over. Done. 

The triangle faded, Dawson never even knew it existed in the first place. He was too consumed by himself and his goals in life to really notice anything out of place at all. I hid it well, hid Pacey well. Dawson seemed so much safer. Pacey was a wildcard that at fifteen I wasn’t sure I wanted to play.

The triangle became a line, a line from myself to Dawson, and Pacey raged in the periphery, making his way through the girls at school, and then the girls at college. And I watched silently, wondering what I ever saw in him in the first place.

When college started we all moved to Boston and lived together until our degrees were complete. There was banter, always banter. Pacey liked to challenge me, fire me up in a way Dawson never did. So we played the constant word game, challenging each other. It was platonic. I'm sure it was nothing more to him. But slowly, gradually, I started to realize that I lived for that banter. I began to crave it. To crave him. His devious smirk, his dark eyes, his stare. But Dawson was there, and I was with Dawson.

We were soulmates. 

That’s what he liked to call it, anyway.

In the third year of college, Pacey started dating Audrey. But the banter didn't stop. Sometimes I wished it would. A brush of a finger, a nudge, legs touching while watching TV. It was my oxygen. If it meant anything to him, he certainly never gave it away.

Once, we had all poured into a cab, already drunk and headed for a club. It was Pacey's 21st Birthday. We were celebrating, in excess. Jen had encouraged me to ‘let loose.’ My skirt was too short, my heels too high. I could barely walk. Vodkas all around.

Another round.

Another round.

Audrey and I were dancing, hands high above our heads, grinding, swaying together in the darkness. My hips moved back and forth, following the music. I was feeling sexy, acting sexy.

Then, my eyes found his. He was watching us, hooded, intense. I realized he wasn't watching Audrey.

He was watching _me_.

I danced a little slower, moved my hips a little deeper. I pressed my legs together to try and dampen the ache. Audrey turned to me and mouthed "Bathroom," over the booming music and stumbled off the floor.

Pacey stood slowly and walked towards the dance floor. My heart started beating faster. I could feel the pulse in my neck. I didn't stop dancing. I couldn't stop moving. He approached from behind and wrapped his arms around me, resting his hands on my hip bones. We moved together. Back and forth, he turned his face into my neck and breathed, strained, into my ear, almost a groan. Guttural. My eyes involuntarily closed. He started grinding into my rear, I could feel him. All of him.

Hard.

I was filled with one feeling only. Want. 

"You're _killing_ me Jo," he whispered, voice low. I could barely hear it above the music.

I grinned.

"You're always killing me," he breathed.

I wanted to turn around, to face him. But I couldn't. I couldn't look at those eyes. I didn’t think I’d be able to stop myself, On a dancefloor, with Dawson at the bar and Audrey in the bathroom.

It continued to build.

We started to move, slowly, towards the back of the dancefloor, to the wall. Behind the crowd, away from the bar. 

Hidden.

It's all a dance. We're just dancing I kept telling myself.

His hand put pressure on my hipbone and tried to turn me, turn me to face him.

"Look at me," his lips grazed my neck.

I shake my head.

"Please," he pressed himself into me, harder.

I tilted my head backward so I could reach his ear to speak, to tell him 'no', to tell him 'yes'? I don't even know. His eyes found mine.

I can't breathe.

"I can't," I shook my head again.

"But it's my birthday," he growled, almost pleading.

I turned, surrendering. His hands moved to my waist, tight. "Okay, but only because it's your birthday," feigning a shrug: those blue eyes, hooded, yearning. Boring into mine, I couldn't look away.

He ran his hand up my waist, light as a feather, dusting across my breasts and wrapped his palm around the base of my neck, his thumb gently caressed my collarbone. My head involuntarily tilted back.

I had lost all control. Crackles of electricity seemed to come from his fingertips, leaving goosebumps over my skin in their wake.

How can a touch feel like this? _Never,_ have I ever felt a touch like this.

"Did you know," his lips were back at my ear, "there is only one thing I want for my birthday, only one thing I've ever wanted?" he hid his lips in my hair, gently kissing the base of my neck. Once, twice. His tongue traced towards my ear, warm. 

I swallowed, hard.

I was dying, but coming alive at the same time.

I opened my eyes to see Audrey stagger back to the dancefloor, "Baby, you're DANCING!" she yelled and ran to Pacey, turning to grind against him, grabbing my hand and pulling me towards her as she danced between us.

I tried to dance. Tried to stay. Pacey's eyes turned dark. I couldn't look at him. It was over so quickly. Did it even happen? I excused myself and headed for the bar. Taking my place next to Dawson. He was talking to someone, at someone, oblivious. He was always so oblivious. I downed another vodka and put my forehead onto the bar.

For the rest of the night, for the taxi home, as we ate greasy food the next morning, Pacey wouldn't look at me. He wouldn't turn to me. Avoidance. I started to think I'd imagined it all, misread the situation, throwing myself at him. I was mortified. He withdrew.

And it was never spoken of again, written off in my mind as a drunken mistake. Emotions heightened by the vodka in my veins. We continued, uninterrupted as friends.

There were still occasional brushes of a finger, a nudge, legs touching while watching TV, and sometimes I even imagined them lingering longer than they used to.


	4. Four

I made coffee, pushed some bread into the toaster. I waited, staring into it, watching it brown. Then it popped, propelling the toast, it’s little jump shocking me.

Spreading on peanut butter, thick, I was trying, _really_ trying, to just think of peanut butter. Not of men who were now sleeping in my apartment, staying with me, _for a week._

The house was quiet, and I didn’t know if Pacey was awake yet. 7.27 am. The sun was already beaming through the windows and promising to heat up the already stifling rooms, so I put the toast on a plate and sat out on the balcony trying to get some breeze.

The front door closes and Pacey strolls inside, earphones in and wearing workout clothes. Sweaty.

I suddenly feel sweaty too. 

He glances around and spots me on the balcony.

“Hey, I forgot how great it is to run around here, I checked out all the old haunts,” he pulls out his headphones and rests them around his neck.

“It’s already so hot. I don’t know how you can do it!” I say, fanning myself.

He smiles. His hands grab the bottom of his singlet and pulls it up to wipe the sweat off his face. It is a move that takes all of about two seconds, but I’m sure time stood still. He is so muscular now, so lean. His shorts are slung low on his hips, and I can see the dusting of hair on his chest leading _all the way_ down. I fan myself harder and look out to the city.

“There’s coffee in the pot if you want some,” pointing inside.

_Please go inside._

Months of no sex has turned me into a total lush.

“Sure, I’ll grab some in a minute,” he pulls up a chair and sits next to me, casually. “Dawson sure left early this morning. I thought I heard the door close at 5.30.”

I nod, “Yep, he’s always up early. His office is a few blocks away. Movies to make, screenplays to write. You know the deal.”

“Being the next Spielberg takes early starts?” he asks, eyebrows raised. 

“That it does,” I take a sip of coffee and swallow my smile. 

“And what do you do with yourself now, Miss Potter?”

“Mrs. _Leery_ ,” I correct him, then correct myself, “God that sounds horrible, it makes me think of Gail.”

Pacey laughs, “You’re nothing like Gail.”

“I’m still mainly doing freelance writing, I have a weekly column in the Herald, I do occasional edits for the New York Post. I’m writing a novel now, or not writing a novel now, depending on the day, really. I have a publisher, but things just aren’t coming together like I’d hoped.”

“Lacking inspiration?” he asks.

“Something like that.”

“What’s your novel about?”

I shrug, like I don’t really know and it’s true, because some days I don’t. “It’s a tale of small town lives, I think it’s a love story at its core, but as it develops, I’m not so sure if it’s an optimistic tale, or essentially a tragedy at the core,” I take a sip of my coffee, “I’m kind of letting the writing lead me, and we’ll see where it ends up on the last page.”

“Like even you, the author, will be surprised by the ending?”

“Maybe,” I change the subject, I _always_ change the subject when talking about the novel, “What about you, Pace, what about your new restaurant?”

“Just looking for a new venture, a bit of a new start.” His response is clipped, and I wonder if he is filtering it, that there is something else there.

“Boston felt like a logical next step?” I ask, then wait patiently for his response. 

He nods and glances at his watch, “Shit, I’ve gotta go. I’m going to jump in the shower.” Bouncing from his chair and leaving me on the balcony with a bright, Witter smile.

I pick up my plate and coffee cup and head back to the kitchen.

* * *

“What do you think has inspired this sudden return to Boston?” Jen queries, sticking a fork into her pasta and twirling it around, shoveling it into her mouth.

“He says it’s for work, but I don’t know, it just seems sudden. Five years of nothing. Then he’s back. Staying in MY APARTMENT!” I shake my head, “To be honest, it all feels a quite strange. Are we all supposed just to pretend he didn’t drop off the face of the planet all this time?”

“It certainly felt like he removed himself on purpose.”

“Hmmm,” I nod between mouthfuls of garlic bread.

“Can I speculate?” Jen asks.

“Nope.” I shake my head.

“Are you sure?” she looks at me, knowingly.

“Yes, yes, I’m sure!” I wave my hand at her, like it might stop her from prying.

Impossible.

“He looks _good,”_ she waggles her eyebrows, “If I wasn’t already married, I’d be investigating my options.”

I laugh, “You are trouble Jen Lindley.”

She nods in confirmation and certainly doesn’t dispute this fact. 

“Those biceps... “ she muses staring into the air, “that unshaved beard…”

Nope, I’m not talking about this, “How are the kids?” I ask, distracting her, or at least attempting too. I certainly didn’t require Jennifer Lindley to point out all the redeeming attributes of a thirty-something Pacey Witter for me - I have eyes.

“I don’t want to talk about the kids while I’m enjoying a nice adult lunch with you.” More pasta went in, “They’re fine, by the way, nothing new to report. The usual. Fighting, yelling, mess, meh.”

I know Jen doesn’t enjoy talking much about the kids with me. 

Of course, Jen can tell what I was thinking, “Are you okay? Really? Are you going to try another round of IVF?”

I shook my head. “No, the doctor thought that three tries were as good as an option as any; we were pushing it by going for four rounds. I don’t think it’s going to happen this way for us. Maybe we need to start looking for a surrogate? I don’t know,” I sighed. “We’re about $50,000 down at the moment. We’re going to have to save up a bit more before we can even think about going down that route. Dawson’s filtered every cent into the movie, so maybe we can try again if it’s a success?”

“Wow,” blanched Jen. I nod.

“I think I need a rest from it all. The hormones, the waiting. It’s just all stress. I need to try and relax, think about something else for a change.”

Jen smirks.

“Maybe, Jo, the universe knew e _xactly_ what it was that you needed and sent it right to your doorstep?”

“Don’t you start Lindley!” I warn.

She cackles. “Oh, don’t tell me you hadn’t thought of it already.”

Maybe I had. Maybe I hadn’t?

* * *

I open the door, put my handbag down on the counter and am greeted up close by Pacey.

He should come with a warning, or maybe a cat-bell around his neck.

“Potter, where have you been?”

Still shocked by his up close greeting and general presence in my doorway I reply, “Lunch with Jen, did I need permission?”

“No, no, no. Sorry,” he settles himself “I’m just heading out to check out this potential restaurant space downtown. Care to come along for a ride, I could do with a second set of eyes?”

He puts on his super-please face. Doe-eyes pleading.

How do I say no to that?

I had promised myself to write at least two chapters today. I glance at my laptop, then back to him. 

“Come on Potter, live a little, ignore your homework for just a few hours,” he picks up my handbag and slings it onto my shoulder. If I’m being honest with myself, I would never pick the laptop over Pacey.

“It’s always you luring me to the dark side. It’s amazing I ever got any work done at college.”

“I can’t help it. You’re so fun to distract and annoy.”

It seems I’m going with Pacey without confirming it verbally because I’m locking the door and following him out to the car like a trail of breadcrumbs.

We walk through the car lot. I look around for the Witter Wagoneer. Force of habit. He takes me over to a white Ford Explorer parked next to my car.

“What are you smirking about?” He queries.

“I’ve just got visions of Patrol Cars, the Witter Wagoneer, the college red mustang, this seems so… _vanilla._ “ 

He pats the roof. “This, my dear, is a rental. I still have to buy a car. Audrey got mine in the divorce, haven’t really needed one in New York.”

We get inside. “But thank you for reminding me,” his hands circled the steering wheel, “I might have to go back to my roots and get a nice police cruiser,” I roll my eyes dramatically.

“I don’t believe successful chefs with restaurants featured in Gourmet Traveller should be driving around town in old Police Cruisers.”

Pacey pauses, before putting the key in the ignition and turns to me, “You stalking me, Potter?”

I snort, “No, not stalking!” I backtrack. It’s not a good idea to tell him I’ve followed his rapid rise to culinary fame, keeping magazines and trolling internet articles about him.

“Jen saw it in a magazine, she showed me.”

“Oh, is that so?” he grins and starts the engine.

“Hey, I thought it was great, I mean you’re the closest thing I know to a celebrity right now. Sometimes I even use your name to book into fancy restaurants here in Boston. I call up and I ask for a table for two, the name’s Joey Leery, but I used to be friends with THE Pacey Witter.” I tease him, “Once they pick themselves off the floor from my shameless name dropping–I get the reservation every time.”

He laughs, his breathy and cheerful laugh and his shoulders shudder. I can’t help but laugh too.

“It’s the Michelin star, isn’t it?” he asks, “I think that’s what really puts it over the line.”

“That’s my favorite thing about you now.”

“I’m glad it makes you happy Jo.”

“Oh, endlessly. Only one thing that could make my happier…”

“Let me guess…” he chuckles, “two Michelin stars?”

“You got it!”

We drive downtown. The traffic isn’t terrible, and we make good time. Pacey chats, effortlessly. Not stopping. He talks like no time was ever lost, as if he’d just been on holiday and returned. I realize that in reality, he knows very little about my life now. He doesn’t know anything about what I’d been through in the last five years. Dare I say it, but I wasn’t the same person then. To be honest, I’m not sure I know who I am now. Pacey doesn’t seem to mind, though. He seems to think I was still the same old Joey Potter and treats me as such. So maybe, just today, I would enjoy the simple old-school banter and relax.

He pulls into a side street, parks the car and we walk up the street, meeting the estate agent who leans against the building, waiting with phone in hand. 

“Pacey Witter?” the agent asks, holding out his hand.

“Daniel, nice to meet you,” Pacey’s voice switches instantaneously, he is now in _business-mode_. “This is Jo,” he gestures to me, and Daniel shakes my hand.

“Come on through guys. I’ll show you around.” We follow him through the main doors into the main restaurant space as he sprouts feet squared, kitchen facilities and options for outdoor dining. I look around. It seems nice and spacious with a pleasant ambience. Large stained glass windows filter in light from the morning sun. He takes us through the kitchen, Pacey is stalking around the space, inspecting, asking crucial questions. I blink twice when I see him take out a small notepad and jot down room measurements and notes.

There was no doubt that a lot about Pacey had changed since I had known him last. In college, he floated through life, one fun escapade to the next. Most days he barely showed up to class, and when he did, he would sometimes follow me into my classes, just for something to do. He didn’t seem to care in the least that his classes and my classes weren’t the same. “Details” he would say, shrugging, doodling across my careful notes and flicking me with a pen to distract from the lecture.

But somewhere between college and now he found a passion with food. He started at the bottom, washing dishes and sweeping floors, to culinary school. Then Sous Chef, then Head Chef. His rise through the ranks was swift, but deserved. Pacey showed a focus that he lacked through his entire education, it appeared that he just needed to feel that connection.

My brain was taking some time to equate Pacey _then_ and Pacey _now_.

I had to admit. Pacey now was growing on me.

I just wished I got to see the interim.

“I’ll give you some time to chat to the wife, feel free to take your time and I’ll meet you back in the lot,” Daniel says and walks out the door.

Pacey looks at me, eyebrows raised and wiggling. “Wife, eh?”

I glare back at him, “You wish.”

The corner of his mouth cracks into a smirk.

“What do you think?” he paces out the room dimensions with long strides and writes more figures on his notepad.

“Looks good to me. Clean, no evidence of rodents, nice and spacious, easy access. Nice big pass, excellent bar, I think even with tables there would be lots of room for wait staff to get around.”

“Your waitress and bar wench days coming back to you?” he asks.

I shudder, “Unfortunately yes. Although I never worked anywhere this lovely, it’s stunning Pace.”

“So will you be my hostess?” he asks hopefully.

“Dream on.”

Nodding, he and scopes out the rooms one more time, taking photos and returns to find me perched on a barstool. “Well, _wife_ , shall we go?”

“What are they asking for rent?”

“I think $4500 a month.”

I follow him out to the street where Daniel is waiting, playing with his phone again.

“Thoughts?”

Pacey steps forward, “I think it would suit quite well. Can we get the paperwork for me to run past my accountant?”

“How long has it been vacant for?” I interrupt.

Daniel flinches a little. “I’m not sure,” he looks through his paperwork quickly. Flicking pages, “Since… about two months.”

“Two months?” I repeat, feigning shock, “that’s a long time unoccupied for a property on Union Street. Personally, I think $4500 a month is asking too much.”

Daniel looks to Pacey, then gives me a brief sideways glance. A deep grin is forming on Pacey’s face.

“Also, I saw some wiring in the kitchen that looked questionable at best, that would need to be replaced. It’s a fire hazard, and there’s no way we’d be able to get an insurance inspector past that.”

Pacey leans back against the car. He’s giving me full reign to take the lead on this one.

Daniel’s demeanor hardens. He was expecting an easy day. “I’ll have to speak with the owners, I’m not sure about the price. They said it’s firm.”

“Well, call them now,” I turn to Pacey, “Pacey, when can we take over the lease?”

He thinks for a moment. “I can be ready immediately.”

“Great, we can occupy as soon as we can get the paperwork settled. I think $4000 a month is a fair price, and on the condition of an electrician fixing the wiring and pest inspection,” The estate agent looks to me, then to Pacey. Back to me. Finally, he dials his phone and walks to the corner of the lot to make the call.

“We?” Pacey asks, amused.

I shrug, “Hey, you wanted me to be _your_ wife.”

His face beams. “See, _this_ is why I brought you along. You’re made for this.”

“I’ve worked in enough restaurants and bars to know a thing or two,” I smile at him, “It’s a beautiful space, it’s going to look incredible. I just don't want you to pay more for it than you have to.”

“Author and shrewd businesswoman, you're making me swoon wifey.”

“Are you going to actually work there? Or do you just start these fancy restaurants up and watch from the sidelines now famous chef boy?”

He points to himself, two thumbs to his chest, “Head chef, right here.”

I raise my eyebrows, “Good.”

Pacey and I wait for Daniel's return. He leans against the car. His body so long. We don’t speak, he just looks at me. It’s awkward and a little confronting, but I like it. 

Daniel returns after some negotiating. “Okay, if you can occupy within the week, two months’ rent in advance they will accept your offer.”

They shake on it, and he leaves with promises to email over the paperwork this afternoon.

“Can I buy you a drink to say thanks, you just saved me thousands of dollars a year?” he asks.

“I guess you could twist my arm,” because how does one say _no_ to a drink with Pacey Witter?

I’m not ready to go home, not yet.

We drive through downtown, pulling up next to a row of restaurants and coffee shops East of Boston University. I know exactly where Pacey was taking me. We walk in silence to one of our old hangouts Hell’s Kitchen. As a group, we would regularly frequent it, always packed with college students, half-price Fridays, and a slack approach to checking ID. I tended bar there for the better part of college, and Pacey also spent the better part of that time sitting at the bar, annoying me there too. It was a glorified dive, dark and dingy with peeling, sticky countertops. As we round the corner, we both look around, a little lost.

“Um, are we on the right street?” Pacey peers up and down the road. The street is almost unrecognizable from our college days.

“Wow, look at it! Talk about gentrification!” the bar had been opened up, concertina doors opened out to sidewalk tables, soft music playing and a wall of indoor plants spilling out onto the road. It’s full of mustached, bearded twentysomethings in button-down pressed shirts drinking espresso martinis.

“Imagine the tips if you worked in a fancy place like this in your college days,” Pacey muses, hesitating slightly.

“Well, they still sell alcohol so you can still buy me a drink,” glancing at the multiple paged menu comprising $25 cocktails and tapas. 

Pacey touches the small of my back as we enter. I feel his fingertips touch me through the silk of my shirt. Large hands, long fingers. They almost burn the skin beneath the fabric. He is all physicality; I remember it now. He needs touch, it’s nothing more, nothing less. A way he communicates, a warmth about him that’s casual and attentive. Sometimes Dawson can go days without touching me. And when he does, the touches feel cold, hollow. 

The waiter arrives and we order drinks and a share plate of cheese. Pacey orders a whiskey neat, me a dry Martini. The alcohol goes down easily, along with the conversation, so we order another. 

Pacey’s eyes dance above his menu at me, “You know you still look exactly the same? It’s like you don’t age,” he leans closer, inspecting my face, fascinated.

I grimace and shrink back away from him. “Oh, boy, you’re dreaming. Let’s not talk about how many grey hairs I keep having to pull out.” He shakes his head, unbelieving.

“Trust me, Witter. It’s not pretty. My boobs have dropped at least an inch.”

 _Why?_ Why did I say that?

He laughs loudly, shaking his entire body.

“No way, I don’t believe it. Of course, you could always show me. You know, just to make sure,” he smirks and looks down, wiggling his eyebrows. There’s old Pacey, back with a vengeance.

I roll my eyes and look around the room, choosing to ignore that one.

“Okay, tell me what it’s like to be a famous director’s wife?” he waggles his eyebrows.

“Not sure about the famous part. Well, not yet anyway. It’s pretty tumultuous. Dawson finds a producer, gets the go ahead, gets the funding, the likelihood the movie will get picked up and actually play in cinemas is about 3%, otherwise it’s straight to DVD. So to make sure it gets seen, it’s schmoozing and events to try to get some hype built up, maybe get to a film festival. Black tie events, celebrities, Los Angeles, back and forth again – rinse, repeat. It’s not really my scene.”

“So it’s safe to say Josephine Potter will not be the next red carpet star on the arm of her famous husband?” Pacey says, then pauses, correcting himself, “ _Leery._ ”

“Dawson mostly goes to the functions solo, I tried for a little while, It’s better if I just stay home. You know how he gets when he focuses on something. I may as well not even be there. I only go to the big stuff now.”

“Let’s face it. We always knew Dawson was destined for a life in the dramatic arts. He’s got talent, hopefully one day people can see his vision. Dawson’s one of the good ones,” Pacey smiles. “You know that, he’s just a _nice guy_ , he deserves to have a win with his career. And it sounds like you’re happy, it sounds like you grew up together and made it work.” He pauses, sipping his drink “He’s a good husband,” he adds. It floats in the air for a minute. _Is it a statement, or a question?_ There is a slight inflection in his tone that makes me question it.

I don’t respond and mirror him, taking another drink.

“Were _you_ a good husband?” I look him in the eye, holding his gaze. By the second cocktail, I felt brave.

In my head my line of questioning was treading carefully, but the rush of the alcohol flooding my veins was blurring my filters. The filters that had wrapped around me for years now. I wanted answers, but I was too scared to ask the questions. The hard ones.

This was the next best thing - Deciphering the aftermath, the marriage I didn’t understand, the friendship I lost. _Why? Why? Why?_

How did we end up here?

He thinks for a moment.

“Not at the time, no,” his fingers swirl around the rim of the glass. Concentrating. “I think I was in the wrong place to get married. In my mind, I was too young. We hadn’t even lived together. That was bad. We had to get used to being married, but also exclusively living together for the first time. And I’m sure you remember, we were _off_ more than we were _on_ most of the time.” He shakes his head, remembering. “I threw myself into opening the New York restaurant like it was an obsession. I spent every waking minute there, scrutinizing every plate that met the pass. Everything had to be perfect, no-one else could do it. When the restaurant opened, it just boomed. The reviews were great and suddenly we were booked out for months. I couldn’t believe it.”

“I could believe it,” I say, quietly.

He smiles.

“I think I was trying to keep myself there, because I really wasn’t ready to be married. You know Audrey, she’s a big personality and she needs a sizeable amount of attention to go with it. I wasn’t there for her, emotionally. And that was all she ever really wanted.”

The waiter brings over the cheeseboard, and we both stare at it. He pauses, waiting for him to leave.

“Did you love her?” 

He snaps his head up, then cocks it to the side. Surely he’s wondering about the sanity of my line of questioning. But I feel his honesty, and I want to keep open this line so I can try to get some answers.

He nods. “Yeah, I think so, at least for most of it. She _really_ loved me, which made it harder in a way. No matter how much I wasn’t there, how much of an asshole I was, she was still there, she still supported me. Well, for a while at least.”

“You know what always got me?” I question, “Why did you get married so quickly? It seemed so left field. At the time you guys just seemed… I don’t know – casual. Then suddenly you’re married. We were all so shocked.”

Pacey chuckles, “You want the truth?”

I nod and wait.

Pacey and Audrey surprised us, we were all home for Christmas in Capeside. A Christmas that Pacey and I woke early on Christmas morning, sipping our coffees before everyone woke and he asked me beside the spruce pine if I was happy.

 _Really_ happy.

“Is this the life you want Jo?” The sparkle of the Leery tree behind him, casting a red glow on his brown hair, his eyes serious and imploring.

I stared at him, pondering his question. Isn’t this the life I’ve been told to want since my infancy? Dawson and Joey. Joey and Dawson. Soulmates?

His question remained unanswered as Dawson plodded down the stairs, deposited himself on the couch and kissed me on the nose, wishing me a Merry Christmas morning. 

By the time I’d wished Dawson a merry Christmas in return, I looked back to the couch and Pacey was gone. 

He proposed to Audrey for Christmas that day, and they surprised us with a New Year’s Eve wedding, seven days later. I sat at that small wedding by the creek. I watched the way Pacey looked at Audrey and exchanged his vows, and my breath hitched and a pain emanated from my chest, like a dagger. A dagger named Pacey that laid dormant inside me and sliced a piece of my lung. 

When Dawson asked me to marry him months later the answer was obvious, so obvious it seemed rehearsed, ridiculous even. My head said no, but my mouth said “Yes.”

Pacey answers my question, “On Christmas Eve I was hanging with Dawson, talking about presents, and he showed me the engagement ring he’d bought you. I don’t know. I kind of panicked. I felt like I’d missed the memo we were at the _marriage age._ So I proposed... possibly a little hastily,” His eyes roll at his own impulsive behavior.

I think for a moment, “Wait, Dawson didn’t propose to me for like six months after your wedding are you saying he had a ring at Christmas?”

Pacey shrugs. “What do I know? I took too little time to decide to get married, and Dawson took too long. Can’t win. He was pretty pissed at me that Christmas. He told me I _stole his thunder,”_

“Yeah, that sounds like him. He probably didn’t propose just to make a point.”

We’re silent for a moment. Taking sips from fancy glasses. I notice Pacey’s hands, and they look so much older. More weathered.

It’s nice to talk, back and forth. 

I speak, Pacey speaks, like a tennis match back and forth. I realize this isn’t a common undertaking in our household. Dawson favors speaking at me, launching into monologues about his vision that can last through my entire glass of wine, or two. Pacey is attentive, always has been. He wants to hear what I want to say more than what he wants to tell me.

The feeling warms me from the inside, or maybe it’s the alcohol?

“Did you file for divorce, or did she?”

“Jesus, Jo,” he runs his hands through his hair, “Why do I get the feeling I’m being interrogated?”

I shrug. Because you _are._

“She did, officially,” he takes a drink.

“Was there a tipping point, or did you _just know_ it was over?”

He picks up the knife and slices into the Brie, placing it on a cracker with a grape and pops it into his mouth. He chews slowly, thoughtfully. Then rubs his fingers together to rid them of crumbs.

“In the end, she couldn’t forgive me.”

“For what?”

“Cheating on her.”

* * *

Dawson made an effort to come home early and prepare dinner. No ramen over the sink tonight for me.

Roasted Salmon with baby potatoes and fennel was on the menu. It was quite the fanfare. I secretly considered if he was trying to impress the chef house-guest.

I set the table inside as it was a little milder tonight.

“How did you go today?” Dawson queries, placing the full plates in front of us. I had to admit; it looks and smells pretty amazing. Pacey’s face agreed.

“Excellent. All signed off on the restaurant space. Jo here pulled through and harassed the poor man into giving me a good deal.”

Dawson’s eyebrows raised and looks at me “I’ve still got it,” I reassure him with a smile.

“I never doubted you, love,” he puts his hand on mine and pats it. I see Pacey look away, focusing on his salmon.

Dawson is treading carefully with me. Every time we had another negative pregnancy test, he became softer, gentler, treating me a little like a glass that may slip out of his fingers and smash at any moment. To be honest, I felt that way sometimes myself. But when we have been through this process multiple times, all I can feel is resentment. It grates on me and even thinking about it makes the tendons in my neck tense.

We fill the evening with much more light, reminiscent conversation. We’d had enough serious talk over lunch. Beer and wine flow freely. Dawson recounts the plot of his latest film _in detail_ to Pacey and that’s my cue to get up and clear the table.

“Don’t Jo,” Pacey’s hand is on mine, “You guys have given me a place to crash, the least I can do is the dishes,” he takes them from my hands, so I sit back down and pour another wine. Dawson collects the glasses while they move into the kitchen.

I can hear them, “So are you seeing anyone, since Parker?” Asks Dawson. “No,” Pacey pauses. “I was with someone for a little while, Samantha, but it just wasn’t going anywhere. I’m getting to the point I need someone who I want to be in it for the long haul.”

“Look at you, Pacey Witter, wanting to settle down? Man, if I told the Pacey I knew in high school that you were the first of us to get married and the one who wants to settle down for the ‘long haul’ you would have punched me.” Dawson grins with disbelief.

Pacey sighs, “I would have punched myself,” they laugh as dishes clanging into the dishwasher.

“What’s Audrey doing now?”

“She’s got a new guy, Matt. He seems nice. They’ve got a one-year-old girl, Callie.”

“That’s good. I always had time for Audrey; she was a good egg.” Dawson comes back in and collects the napkins. Pacey nods.

“What about you guys?” Pacey follows Dawson in, “Are kids on the table for the future?”

It’s an innocent question. When people ask they’re just being nice, making conversation.

Dawson gives me a trepidatious side-eye.

I nod, permitting him to share.

“We’ve been trying, for a few years now,” he pauses and puts his hand reassuringly on my shoulder, “we might start looking at surrogate options soon.”

I groan and escape from under his arm, “let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” I open another bottle of beer. Pacey, brows raised, seems to feel the animosity on the subject.

He eyes me with sympathy, “Sorry guys, I didn’t mean to…”

“No, no. It’s fine, really. It’s just been a long road, and it’s mostly filled with shitty times and shitty medical tests and money down the drain. So we’re just tired of it, tired of thinking about it, tired of talking about it.” I take a big gulp of my beer and turn my face away. I don’t want to look at either of them.

Dawson sits down and takes a deep breath. “Okay, enough depressing talk.” He rubs his hands together, changing the subject. “I want to know something about you, Pacey.”

Concern shadows Pacey’s face, masked with a raised brow. “Okay.”

“I want to know why you felt like not only ditching the wedding of your two best friends, but then falling off the face of the planet for five years. Did we do something?”

Pacey pauses, his eyes meeting mine ever so briefly.

Yes, Pacey, why did you bail? I want to hear the answer, but I also don’t.

He looks to the floor.

I decide to step in, to save him, to save myself, “Leave it alone, Dawson, I’m sure he had his reasons.”


	5. Five

**Preparing for a wedding**

***Flashback - 5 Years earlier***

Dawson and I had made a deal. We had decided to have our Bachelorette and Bachelor parties on the same night. As so many of Dawson’s family had traveled from across the country, we kept it close to the wedding, so they only had to make one trip to Boston.

Of course, this had its benefits, but also its drawbacks.

The battles began; over Pacey. He was both our best friends, so the idea that he wasn’t able to spend the night celebrating with us both was contentious. We finally came up with a compromise. Dawson could have him until 10 pm, and then he could come to my Bachelorette for the rest of the evening.

“Are you saying, I get to come and witness the inner workings of multiple fine females as the _only male_ at a Bachelorette party?” hand to his chest, he looked ready to faint. “Will there be pillow fights?” He crossed both his fingers and squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Dude, you’re married,” Dawson scolded.

“True, but there is certainly no harm in being a bystander. I could pass more pillows, fluff them, hold the underwear?”

“Chill guys, I’m like 99% sure that it will be pillow fight free,” I added.

“I live for that 1% Potter,” he replied with a devious wink.

“And who’s to say you will be the only male there?” Jen interrupted, “There might be a nice policeman, fireman or postal workers to keep us company with some tasteful dancing.”

I screwed up my nose, “Postal worker? Jen, you know how I feel about surprises, please don’t surprise me with a Postal worker stripper.”

“I don’t understand why there aren’t more male strippers dressed in chef’s whites? It just seems so logical to me?” Pacey added, questioning.

Jen snorts, “You wish buddy.”

“It’s Joey’s big night, I think she gets to choose her stripper’s outfit and I think she would choose a chef for sure,” Pacey quipped back to Jen.

“I’m standing right here.”

They both looked at me, brows furrowed. “Could I ever forget you’re beside me Jo?” Pacey wrapped his arm around my shoulders and squeezed me against him in a friendly hug, “Come on, tell her Jo, stripper chef is what you want.”

I rolled my eyes.

Dawson just shook his head. Sometimes I wished he would care about the banter. Show a little jealousy. Nope. Not Dawson. He had been conditioned over so many years with this kind of back and forth between us that it barely registered anymore. He believed that his love was all I needed. Always. 

Soulmates.

He trusted me completely. The truth was, I just never trusted myself with Pacey.

And, of course, Pacey was married now. Happily, it seemed. He and Audrey had been married for around 18 months. The infamous Christmas engagement that lasted seven days before a surprise wedding. Yes. We were all undoubtedly surprised. Myself, maybe most of all. Perhaps, when Dawson asked me to marry him six months later, it was the push I needed to say “Yes.”

Perhaps.

“Will Audrey still make it for the wedding?” Dawson asked.

“She’s planning on finishing up work tomorrow night and driving down.” Pacey and Audrey lived in New York now. It was where Audrey worked in PR for celebrities, and Pacey could run his new restaurant.

Jen walked up to Pacey and handed him a card, “this has the information on the location and things you need to know. Do NOT share this information with the doe-eyed amazon beside you,” she pointed at me, “it is a surprise, and she needs to let go of control for one night and relax and enjoy. See you at 10,” She smiled then glared, came close and whispered to me, “Don’t you dare try to fish information out of him, he is weak to your charms, and you know it.”

Pacey squinted. Did he hear that?

“See you tonight girls and boy, have a fun night Dawson!” Jen waved and was out the door.

* * *

I glanced at the clock. 10.22.

“I saw that!” Jen mouthed at me across the room. I took another big drink.

We’d been playing bridal games, eating takeout and drinking large cocktails with phallus straws. I was still wearing my toilet paper veil, adorned with beautiful penis stickers across the headband.

Finally, there was a knock at the door. Pacey had arrived already tipsy, animatedly talking to Jen and charming all the girls. I felt a sigh of relief at the sight of his face.

“Do not fear ladies, your entertainment is here!” he announced.

I pulled up next to Jen, “please tell me he is not our stripper.”

“Yeah right, you’d really hate that,” she looked at me, knowingly.

“Oh shut up,” I snapped, “Bygones, he’s married now, and I’m getting married, all water under the bridge.”

Why, _why_ did I have to tell her about that night at the club and my feelings toward him? It was years ago. Surely she realized I was over it. Because I was. _I was._

“The DASHING bride,” he appeared beside me, twirling me around. “Stunning! I love the cocks. They really bring out your eyes.”

I stared at him, parted my mouth, licked my lips and slowly took a long sip from my purple penis straw. He eyed me, delighted and challenged.

“How was Dawson’s, was anyone shaved and naked yet?”

“No, no, no Miss Potter,” He tapped my nose, “What happens at Dawson’s Bachelor night stays at Dawson’s bachelor night. There most certainly is not a slightly weathered stripper performing questionable tricks in the penthouse involving shaving cream and lighters too close to smoke detectors.”

“Really?” I questioned.

Pacey laughs, “Relax, it’s Dawson, they’re sitting in a hotel watching movies and slowly getting drunk. Booooorring.” He nudged my side, “I couldn’t wait to get out of there,” he added.

“Okay, the pillow flights can start now…” He announced to the room, looking around, expectantly. The group of girls just collectively rolled their eyes.

“Nope,” Jen passed him a drink with a blue cock straw, “We’re going out soon. First, we are going to play one more game, and we need you,” she dragged Pacey over into the lounge, pressing him up against the wall.

“Are you all going to devour me one by one?” he rubbed his hands together hopefully.

“Nope,” Jen pulled his head down and strapped a cardboard mask to his face. He straightened, and we all burst out laughing when we realized it was Dawson’s face. Complete with eyes cut out. Rather creepy.

“We’re playing pin the dick on Dawson!” Jen announced.

Pacey backed up further.

“Relax it’s not a pin, it’s just double-sided tape.”

“I find this cruel and demeaning,” came Pacey’s muffled voice from behind the mask. But he didn’t move. Didn’t attempt to take it off. He leaned down and pushed the dickstraw through Dawson’s mouth hole and took a drink, settling back.

The girls each took a differently colored penis, all different shapes and sizes and had their turn. They attacked him, blindfolded and spinning, until Pacey was adorned with dicks as high as his armpits and as low as his knees. I couldn’t stop laughing.

Then it was my turn. “Okay, finally the bride,” Jen motioned over to me, wrapped a scarf over my eyes and handed me my gold glitter penis, largest of them all.

“Go easy, Potter,” Pacey quipped.

She spun me around, which, considering the amount of alcohol in my veins, was entirely unnecessary. When Jen straightened me, I struggled to stand still. Arms reached out, I searched for my target. The laughs from everyone grew as I touched the television and missed ‘Dawson’ completely. Jen adjusted me again in the right direction and sent me on my way. I felt out in front of me, a chest. I ran my hands across his broad chest and shoulders, trying to get some perspective of distance. I could hear him make a sharp intake of breath, I unconsciously made one too.

“Hey,” Jen yelled, “No touching! Put out your hand and stick it on.”

I put my hand out where I thought the appendage belonged and gently pressed—another breath.

I pulled off my mask as everyone was laughing, clapping and cheering for me. I’d done pretty well. I’d attached it just to the right of his fly… very close. Very, very close.

I was the clear winner.

“And the Bride wins the prize,” said Jen clapping. “A kiss from Dawson.”

I could see Pacey’s cheeks raise under the mask, grinning. I glared at Jen.

“Come-on!” yelled Bianca, “kiss your fiancé.”

I turned, stood on the tips of my bare feet, placed my hands on those broad shoulders and kissed the cardboard face mask of Dawson. Pacey leaned in.

Cheers erupted. I rolled my eyes for all to see.

Pacey pulled off the mask a little sheepishly and looked down at his body covered by colored penises.

“Okay, everyone get changed. We’re going OUT!” Jen announced.

I balled my hands into fists to stop them from shaking.

* * *

Jen escorted us into the dimly lit club named ‘Nights of Arabia’ and took us over to a table marked as reserved. Topless waiters presented me with a goblet full of iridescent pink punch and sat me down at the end of the table in a large golden throne. Classy. I’d thought the pink, flashing sash with BRIDE TO BE on it was the worst. I was wrong.

Pacey was looking around mildly horrified as topless waiters passed him a drink. “I think we swapped the times around wrong, I should have done yours first and Dawson’s second.”

“Too bad, so sad,” said Jen and sat him in a chair.

“Not sure if you’ve noticed Pacey, but you’re the only male in here. The club is full of women in skimpy dresses. Not one other guy… except of course the strippers, and they don’t count,” said Bianca.

He looked around, suddenly fascinated.

“You’re right, okay I take it back,” shuffling back into his chair and making himself comfortable.

“You’re married,” I reminded him.

“Yeah, yeah. You will be too in 48 hours … so remember, we can _look_ , but we can’t _touch_ ,” he gestured to the topless waiter beside me, fanning me with a faux palm frond.

The lights dimmed, and the stage illuminated, smoke machines filling it from the sides. Ginuwine’s ‘Pony’ started playing, and four uniformed men burst out onto the stage to maniacal screams from the audience. I grabbed the bottle of vodka in front of me and poured a shot, downing it quickly. Pacey picked up his glass and gestured towards me. I filled his up too.

The men danced, they gyrated, they stripped down to g-strings, danced and gyrated some more. A firefighter came onto the stage and grabbed a microphone, “Okay ladies, I hear there are some very special guests here tonight,” my heart stopped.

_Oh shit._

“Our first lucky lady Josephine Potter I believe, is about to be married. Are you out there, Joey?” He looked into the crowd.

Shit. _Shit._

I pondered if it was too late to hide under my chair?

Everyone at our table started cheering. Pacey screamed the loudest, he grabbed my glass and poured another shot, pushing it towards me. I took it, tossed it back, and dragged myself out of my chair and onto the stage.

Mr. Firefighter took my hand and led me to a chair in the center of the stage. I tried to sit carefully. My skirt was _very_ short. I hadn’t anticipated this. I shut my eyes. Tight.

“Miss Potter, tell me,” he walked around the chair, “Who is the lucky man?” pushing the microphone into my face and lifting my hand to the crowd to display my ring.

“Um, Dawson Leery,” the crowd cheered again. I wished the stage would sink. I wanted to be devoured by a black hole. Anything to get me out of this.

“Well, Josephine, I’m going to make you forget _all_ about your fiancé,” he dropped the microphone, and the music started. He circled me, like prey. Running his hands down my arms, facing the crowd. I could smell his coconut body oil. Thrusting into my sides, gyrating against me with fancy dance moves. I wouldn’t look down at my table. I couldn’t. This would all be over soon.

He spun me out of the chair and gently laid me on the ground while simulating more sex positions than I’d ever experienced with Dawson over the years. I tried to cover my eyes. He pulled my hands back and ran them over his rippling muscles instead. I took a breath. 

Thankfully, the song came to an end, and he finished by picking me up, throwing me over his shoulder and spinning me around. I was certain I was going to vomit.

My underwear was showing, I was sure of it. A lacy black thong.

Face hot with embarrassment; I returned to the table. Jen is crying with laughter. “Oh my GOD, Joey.” She held up her phone, “I got it all on video so you can watch it later,” I started to wonder if she is drunker than I am. I put my face in my hands.

I could see in my peripheral vision Pacey, back against the chair. Very still. I was too scared to look at him, mortified. I didn’t need to hear his comments. Not now.

I picked up the vodka and took a drink straight from the bottle.

“Quite the performance,” he quipped. Unsmiling. His eyes were dark.

“If you think I enjoyed ANY of that, you are kidding yourself,” I threw back with venom. How dare he berate me?

“Did you realize everyone could see your underwear?” he asked.

I stood and ran for the bathroom.

I tried to vomit. I could stick my fingers down my throat but didn’t think I had the willpower. I sat on the toilet lid, the room spinning.

“Potter?” Pacey’s voice called through the open doorway.

“Fuck off!” I yelled back. “This is the ladies’ bathroom.”

“I’m not coming in. I’m just checking you’re okay.” He sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, I was being an ass.”

“Leave me alone!” I yelled, and the door closed.

I stayed for five minutes and tried to calm myself. I was embarrassed, drunk and didn’t want to go back out there.

When I finally opened the bathroom door, Pacey was there, waiting for me, leaning against the wall.

“Wanna get some fresh air?”

I nodded.

We walked down the street a little until we are out of earshot of the security guards.

Pacey looked down, running his fingers through his hair, frustrated and nervous. “I’m sorry, I know you were embarrassed. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I wasn’t mad at you. I was mad at the _situation_.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“I just didn’t like it,” he paused, “I didn’t like watching that. _At all_.”

What does that mean?

He searched for words for a moment, “You’re my oldest friend Joey, and I hate to watch you demeaned, embarrassed. I wanted to stop it, but I realize it’s all supposed to be fun. I’m sorry, I overreacted.”

“You’re not my protector,” I said. His eyes bored directly into mine, and he stepped towards me.

“I am well aware of that Joey, thank you for the reminder.”

“You’re married,” I am baiting him now. I point to my flashing BRIDE sash. I’m playing with fire.

He took another step closer. My heart rate seemed to increase incrementally with each pace he took.

“So you keep reminding me.” Hand to his chin, “Or are you reminding yourself?”

I keep quiet.

“Can I tell you something?” he asked. I felt like the question is loaded, very loaded.

I nodded, trying very hard to steady myself against the wall.

“Are you sure you want to know?” he tested the waters, stalking closer.

I nodded again, not quite as sure this time.

“I maybe, once upon a time, used to have some no so friendly feelings towards you, so sometimes those memories can come back a little and cloud my judgment.” 

I felt my throat constrict. Did he really just say that?

“By not so friendly, you mean?”

“I didn’t want so much to be friends as… more than friends.”

I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t breathe, he was so fucking close. His admission threw me a little. While this _thing_ between us is hard to dismiss, to hear it verbally acknowledged is another thing entirely.

“Did you ever feel the same?” he asked.

He was testing me. My mind instantly went back to the night on the dancefloor, his body up against mine. The heat. I pressed my thighs together, the familiar warmth spreading in my core just with his look.

“Maybe,” vodka makes me bold, and also stupid. You don’t talk to married people this way. You smile and you walk away.

_Walk away, Joey._

His eyes smiled, then shifted from blue to black, in a split second.

I tried to move but my legs wouldn’t cooperate, like they didn’t understand the mechanics of walking away from Pacey Witter, in the dark, outside a strip club.

“You’re getting married in two days,” he held up two fingers.

“So you keep reminding me, or are you trying to remind yourself?” I turned his words against him and pointed to my ‘bride to be’ sash again.

He rolled his eyes dramatically and seemed to hesitate, like he was having the same tumultuous internal battles as me.

I was drunk, standing in the street with a man I shouldn’t be alone with. He’s flirting. I’m flirting.

Bad. Idea. Joey.

It’s that inexplicable connection. It zaps like electricity all around us. When Pacey’s not around, I start to doubt it, chalk it up to my mind conjuring imagined feelings. Then I’m with him and there is no questioning it. It’s there. It’s in his every move. He feels it too.

Thankfully, Jen appears next to us grabbing my wrist and glaring at Pacey who instantly steps back, “What the fuck guys? I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she seemed genuinely concerned.

“Sorry, I just needed some air,” Jen stared straight through me.

“No offense,” she put her hand up toward Pacey and pointed at him accusingly “but you’re the last person she should be outside getting fresh air with.”

Pacey didn’t dispute it and falls back against the wall.

“There is a reason Bachelorettes are supposed to be women only,” she snatched my wrist and dragged me back inside. It’s a good thing. I know there is no way I was capable of walking away from Pacey of my own volition.

* * *

We rode back to my apartment in a cab. Jen passed out on the seat, head on my shoulder. Pacey had her shoes in his hands, playing absentmindedly with the buckle.

I was sobering up quickly.

After Jen dragged us back inside, I attempted to keep a bit more distance between us. We all danced on the dancefloor with the strippers. We drank, we sang Whitney Huston’s ‘Wanna dance with somebody’ at the top of our lungs. Despite the earlier hiccup, we relaxed. We had fun.

But the night drawing to a close meant that one more hurdle to the big day was over. It was coming towards me like a steam train with no brakes, and I couldn’t slow it down.

It was happening. I was getting married.

I was excited. Scared. Sure, everyone had second thoughts before they got married, didn’t they? Dawson was a great guy. He was the only guy I’d ever been with, the only person I’d ever had to gauge a relationship with. Every first we had was supposed to be our last. So what that he didn’t know how to fold clothes properly, would make strange noises while he chewed, wasn’t quite as tall and as broad as certain gentlemen? We were going to be happy. It was going to be great.

Pacey and I poured Jen into the spare bed, I left a glass of water and aspirin on her bedside and tucked her in.

I headed to the linen closet and took out some of the blankets and handed them to Pacey in the lounge. He took off his shirt and lay on the couch, snuggling under a blanket.

“Night,” he called out as I reached the hallway.

I didn’t respond.

* * *

I checked the clock again “4:00” turned and tried to get comfortable for the fiftieth time. I thought I heard a noise. It was probably just the couple in the apartment next door.

I grabbed my phone, scrolling through for a distraction. Some of my friends had sent through pictures from the night. Lots of blurry shots of me, strippers, Jen, drinks, Pacey wearing a Dawson mask covered in colorful cocks. I threw my phone down onto the bed.

Nope.

Tiptoeing through the hallway, I took my glass for a refill. As I passed the couch in the darkness, I could see the outline of his sleeping form.

Filling the glass to the brim from the fridge tap, I turned and stopped.

Pacey stood in the doorway.

“Can’t sleep?”

I shook my head. I wasn’t sure he could even see me. I could barely see him in the darkness.

But I could feel him there, his presence filling the room.

I could hear a tap dripping behind me, the gentle hum of the refrigerator, the fan circulating the warm air around the room. 

And like magic, he was suddenly in front of me. Close. In my space.

I didn’t retreat.

His head dipped down towards me, and Pacey’s lips were on mine. So insistent and hungry. I pressed myself towards him, permitting him to deepen the kiss.

It was eager and messy. It was divine. I was sure I’d never in my life been kissed like this; it was something entirely new to me. My legs started to give out from under me. 

One arm circled my waist and the other in my hair as we devoured each other’s mouths. His hands were only thing holding me vertical, I felt like I was falling into the floor, through my own feet.

He pushed me against the fridge. I could feel the magnets pressing into my spine. Magnets Dawson bought from the cities he’d visited. His hand is under my shirt, deliciously hot against my skin, tracing the underside of my breast.

A soft moan from my lips pours into his mouth and, in response, his fingers encircle my nipple.

Blackness.

He is pressed against me. So much heat. He smells of the ocean and vodka.

I try to crawl up him. I need to be closer. My legs wrap around him, using the fridge as leverage. His arms move and hands grab my thighs firmly, pressing against me, _all of it_ long and hard, right there at my core.

The magnets behind me dislodge and fall to the floor loudly.

We suddenly pause, panting, pulling away and shocked by the noise. I open my mouth, Pacey’s fingers press against my lips, quieting me. Our foreheads rested together, assessing, waiting. In the brief pause, I’m searching for the composure I lost long ago.

My lips already miss his.

We both gasp for air in ragged breaths. I listen for any sound of Jen.

Nothing.

He lifts me and carries me, legs still wrapped around him into my room. He gently lays me on the bed, then goes back and closes the door silently.

He’s back, whispering into my ear, “not a sound,” he grins into my neck and trails tiny kisses from my ear to my collarbone. It’s easy for him to say. My heaving breaths can’t be controlled.

The truth was, I was afraid.

Afraid that Jen would hear.

Afraid that he’d come to his senses and back away, out of loyalty to Dawson.

Afraid that he would stop.

I delighted in the exquisite pleasure of finally having him. After all this time, I want to savor it. Like an ice-cream, melting in the summer sun. It would be gone before I knew it, I didn’t want to miss one drip. 

“Joey,” he murmured against my ear, breaking the fever of his kisses.

I couldn’t form a coherent sentence, “mmmm.”

“I’m not sure I know how to stop this,” his voice was pained.

“Good,” I pulled him back against me, hard. Forcing his lips back against mine, he didn’t fight back. My body ached for him, for _this_ Pacey. Here, with me right here, right now. And if I only get him for one night, I was going to make the most of it.

My bra was gone, hanging off my dresser. His pants were gone, piled on the floor.

Once he slipped himself inside me, I fell apart, loosing myself, losing the Joey Potter I thought I was. I tilted my hips to invite him further, in desperate and frantic thrusts. We clung to each other, grasping. I didn’t want it to end but, I couldn’t hold myself back, the pleasure so raw and intense. His blue eyes bored into mine, barely blinking above me.

I was sure he could feel my urgency; there is no need for build-up. I’m was already there, teetering on the edge of my orgasm.

Then he moaned, “Oh God, Joey,” and I was done. Spent. Crashing down like years of pent up frustration and longing. His hands covered my open, gasping mouth to try and silence me.

* * *

When I opened my eyes, he was there. The sun was beaming through the window; I hadn’t even closed my blinds.

Burying my face into the pillow, I couldn’t imagine how I must look after a night like that. His eyes were smiling at me. I could smell the sex lingering in the air. The touches had continued all night long, the exploration of each other in _depth_. My legs and body ached from it, a pleasurable ache.

“Morning,” he quipped.

“Morning.”

“You look just as beautiful in the morning as I imagined.”

I rolled my eyes and pretend to gag, “Yeah, I’m sure it’s a real treat.” I sat up to smooth my hair back and wipe under my eyes, and he pulled me back, back to the bed. The bed where good things happened. And bad things. He flipped me onto my back and rested on his arms over me, devouring me with his eyes.

“How is your head?” he queried, testing to water to see how drunk I was.

“Fine, I had well and truly sobered up by bedtime.”

He smiled widely, “Good, me too.”

So, it was established that this was a reasonably sober consensual rendezvous. It couldn’t be blamed on drunk insanity.

Although I was sure I was insane. I was lying naked in bed, with my fiancé’s best friend, my best friend one day before my wedding and I was happy. Clearly, I’d gone mad.

His fingers traced light circles on my hipbone, making it very hard to think.

“So……”

“Do we really need to ruin this morning by talking?” he asked, hungrily.

“Unfortunately, I think we might need to. We have some time constraints here. Jen might already be awake. We can’t stay like this.”

Pacey pulled his hand away, nodding sadly.

“So this is it?” sadness seeped into his tone.

I sighed.

“I don’t know. I have to think. This is a lot to process.” Rolling out of bed, I started putting on underwear and trying to locate a shirt. He laid back, sheet low on his hips, hands behind his head. I wondered if this move was an attempt to lure me back.

“Are you trying to tell me, Jo, that you never imagined this possibility? That somehow this never crossed your mind? That this is a new concept to process?”

“Maybe,” I pulled a shirt over my head, “But I never expected that it would actually happen. Especially not the day before my fucking wedding,” just saying it made me feel sick. I had an affair, and I wasn’t even married yet.

“So you’re still getting married then?” he cocked his head to the side.

“You’re kidding, right? Of course, I’m still getting married. YOU’RE MARRIED!” I yell. This situation is bordering on ridiculous.

His hands quickly gestured to keep it down. I momentarily forgot Jen was in the spare room down the hall.

I started searching around the room, finding his clothes and throwing them towards him. He reluctantly starts getting dressed, eyes suddenly shadowed. Silently he buttoned his pants and then moved to stand in front of me, challenging.

“What are we going to do here, Joey?” Pacey sighed, eyes sad and sincere. Desperate for an answer, a specific answer. One that I’m wasn’t sure I was capable of giving him.

My head scrambled for answers, for a sign. Of course, this is what I’ve wanted for years. But how do you throw everything away, throw Dawson away, _everything_ in my life away? For what? One night? Entirely on a whim for a married man?

It was madness.

“Joey,” Jen knocked at the door.

We froze, eyes locked on each other.

“One minute!” I called out.

“Wait here,” I mouthed to him. He just shook his head.

“Please!” I pleaded with him in a whisper.

I left the room, heading to the kitchen to meet Jen and debrief on the evening. Of course, I don’t mention what happened between Pacey and I, not yet anyway. It was all too fresh. After pouring a coffee, I told Jen I needed to get my phone from the room and when I arrived, it was empty.

He was gone.

The bedroom window was open, the bed is made. There was no was evidence he was ever there.

Pacey Witter doesn’t return. Not for the rehearsal dinner. Not for the wedding. My texts go unread, my calls unanswered.

So, I married Dawson. On the 23rd of July as planned, minus one best friend who was unexpectedly called away.


	6. Six

Pacey’s apartment is ready, he takes his duffel bag and leaves, with promises of dinner at his place next week.

I’m relieved.

It’s not that I didn’t enjoy the company, but I needed some air. To be deprived of something for so long and then have it return is confronting. My mind needed some time to play catch up with reality. And I needed a break from those eyes, that face—his attention, his interest, waiting, sipping his beer, a blue ocean of depths watching me.

When something happens, and you never discuss it, you never acknowledge it, did it even happen? For some time, I’d convinced myself that night was a dream.

Too much alcohol, too many emotions, and an overactive imagination.

Surely it was a possibility?

Or, maybe it was a way of dealing with my guilt. A way of living my life with Dawson, marrying him, pretending that I was only his. Shaking it all off as an aberration.

But he was back.

It was real.

I had an affair with my best friend, and so did he. And, it would appear that he came clean and told Audrey about it. So why was it I’d never told Dawson?

* * *

I am awake early in a house that is strangely quiet. Dawson was gone before the sun rose and left me in bed, tossing and turning. Unable to find sleep again, I pull myself from the covers, pour a coffee and tackle the mountain of washing that accumulated while our guest was here. I’m folding and matching socks. R

Riveting stuff.

My phone buzzes.

**7.03 from Pacey Witter** Moving sucks, remind me never to do it again.

I feel my lips curl into a smile as I read his message.

**7.05 from Joey Leery** True Story. Aren’t you rich and famous now? Can’t you pay minions to do it?

**7.06 from Pacey Witter** I do not allow minions to touch my precious personal possessions. They do not treat them with the care required. 

**7.07 from Joey Leery** And yet you’re summoning _me_ for assistance? Boo Hoo! Lift your boxes and get to work. 

**7.07 from Pacey Witter** Your arms are big and strong… care to assist?

**7.08 from Joey Leery** Leave me alone. I’m busy and very important. Who else could possibly match THE future famous director Dawson Leery’s socks??

**7.09 from Pacey Witter** It sounds like critical work. I always knew you were destined for greatness, Jo.

I roll my eyes and throw the phone down.

**7.10 from Pacey Witter** Pretty please?

**7.11 from Pacey Witter** ☹ Can you really say no to my sad face?

**7.11 from Joey Leery** Quit being a big man-baby. You have been out of my house for 18 hours. You CAN do things for yourself, you know? You managed it for years…

**7.12 from Pacey Witter** I will pay. Pizza, beer.

**7.13 from Joey Leery** Are we still in college?

**7.13 from Joey Leery** Can’t you cook now? Surely you could lure me with truffled eggs or some fancy foam on top of caviar on top of grilled asparagus or something else ridiculously complex?

**7.14 from Pacey Witter** I would. But I haven’t been grocery shopping yet.

**7.14 from Joey Leery** Fine, whatever.

**7.15 from Joey Leery** I’ll come over after breakfast.

**7.15 from Pacey Witter** Thankyou, thankyou, thankyou!

**7.16 from Joey Leery** Yeah, yeah. Don’t forget my payment.

**7.17 from Pacey Witter** As IF you would let me forget. See you soon. xo

I leave the pile of washing and grab my keys. After only eighteen hours apart, I’m driving to his apartment before I even realize what I’m doing.

Pacey sits on the floor, pulling clothes out of boxes and sniffing them before placing them on the ground.

“Why are you sniffing them?” I ask, horrified.

“I’ve had some of this stuff in storage for years. It smells like a thrift shop,” he throws a blue hawaiian shirt to the side in disgust.

“A good rule. If you haven’t worn the clothes in a few years, you don’t need them. You need a dump pile.” I grab a nearby trash bag, shake it open, and toss the shirt inside.

“Hey, this is expensive stuff!”

“Fine,” I shrug, “It can be a thrift shop pile then if it already has the odor.” 

He throws _another_ Hawaiian shirt at me. I unconsciously put it to my face and inhale. Bad idea. I can’t smell thrift shop. The only scent I catch is unmistakably Pacey, and it elicits a flash of memory, one that I don’t want to relive under his scrutiny. I scrunch my nose up and put it into the bag. 

Great cover, Joey.

Pacey looks around, clearly overwhelmed at the boxes that surround him. “Maybe I should get rid of it all and just go buy everything new?”

“Like a cleansing thing? Or like a lazy thing?”

“Like a cleansing thing. New life, new stuff?” He shrugs and keeps going through the boxes.

“It’s a big change. Maybe you should get some new things, make it your own?”

“So you’re thinking _new_ Hawaiian shirts?”

I punch him on the arm and he feigns injury.

Recovered, he replies, “You’re right. When we split up, I moved into a furnished apartment, I was never really home to enjoy it, anyway. So it might be nice to have my own stuff, hang my own pictures on the wall?”

We spend the morning sorting, stacking and finding homes for everything that he’d decided to keep. I help Pacey make the bed, wipe down the kitchen cabinetry and put away toiletries. It all feels effortless like suddenly the years he was gone don’t mean anything. He’s my friend again. It’s a nice feeling. I lean into it.

“Okay, where is my pizza?” I stand, hands-on-hips. “It’s past one o’clock and well past my time for payment.”

“Oh, god! I dared to forget to feed the beast. Quick,” he motions, fearfully “pass me the phone!”

I throw him the phone and he orders, walks to the fridge and takes out some cold beers. He hands me one, and I walk over to a box labeled ‘stuff’ and open it. He collapses onto the couch and kicks his leg up onto the armrest.

I thumb through a box filled with photographs. Photos of Dawson, Pacey, Audrey, Jack, Jen, Me. They’re mostly old printouts. I find one of all of us on Prom night and hold it up to Pacey.

“Blast from the past,” I look at it closely, “I loved that dress.”

We’re standing outside the dock at Dawson’s house, Gail took the picture. Dawson has his arms wrapped around my waist, a thin spaghetti strap is falling to the side, I’m looking away from the camera. 

“You looked beautiful in that dress,” he says, then adds, “Who’s that stud in the background?”

In the photo, Pacey is standing to my left, arm casually draped around Jen. They both went stag that night.

“Look at your spiky hair, gel much? And your suit was too big.”

“Don’t dispute my rugged good looks, Jo. Even as a teen it was unmistakable.”

“If you say so.”

Pacey sips his beer quietly in thought. 

I flick through more photos. Photos of Pacey as a baby. Pictures of Pacey at college. Photos of Dawson and Pacey. At the beach. Drinking. College years. Parties. Fun. The photos of Audrey and Pacey’s wedding I don’t look through, tucking that stack in the box.

I come to snapshots of Pacey on True Love, when he sailed away, and I stayed with Dawson. Photos I’d never seen before. An empty beach, the Florida keys, crystal blue water as far as the eye can see. The sand in the pictures is so white I can feel my toes running through it, fine grains sticking to my skin. 

Missed opportunities are a funny thing, at the time it’s a simple decision, but time compounds it into something much more. 

“It was amazing. When I look back, I think it was crazy. A teenager alone on a boat for all that time,” he appears over my shoulder and gazes at the photos as I flick through them.

“That’s because it _was_ crazy Pace.”

I pick up a photo of Pacey’s 21st Birthday. We’re all in the kitchen of our shared house—pre-drinks before going to the nightclub. We’re rosy-cheeked and smiling. Pacey is wearing a party hat and a 21 badge on his shirt. He’s smiling broadly, his blue eyes boring into me from the picture, just like that night.

I push it back into the pile.

* * *

Sauntering into the bedroom wearing only a black bra and my tiniest pair of underwear, I find Dawson sitting up in bed, reading. Again.

Spending the day with Pacey has had me on edge for the first time in months, and I’m looking for a release. For so long, I’ve felt a disconnect with my body, with myself. Suddenly I feel alive, and I want to share the feeling.

“Hey babe,” I purr.

He looks up at me over his reading glasses with caution.

“Are you okay?” He seems genuinely concerned.

I prowl over to the bed and shimmy up to his side, tracing tiny kisses down the side of his neck and licking below his earlobe. He shuffles, turning me to look at him.

“Are you sure?”

I respond by kissing him feverishly on the lips, dragging my tongue across his teeth. I crawl into his lap, pressing myself against him with abandon.

Yes.

This is what I want, isn’t it?

He runs his hands up my sides, lifts me and places me onto the bed, swiftly moving away from my advances. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly covered in chills.

“What the hell Dawson?” I bark.

“Jo, sorry. I just can’t, not tonight. I’m sorry. It just feels…” He runs his hands through his hair, searching for words.

Blood courses through my veins so fast I can hear it in my ears. “We haven’t had sex in months, Dawson. What is this? Is it a marriage? Are we just friends now? Do I repulse you?”

His hands rise and fall, trying to quiet my voice as it grows louder and louder. I silence myself and collapse onto the bed, and he wraps himself around me. It’s not as comforting as I’d hoped. It’s almost cold somehow.

“You know it’s not you, Jo. You are beautiful, sexy, gorgeous! It’s the stress of work, the movie release coming up, the IVF, the failed tests.”

I nod. Because I know, I’ve felt all of it too. It’s like an envelope of sadness. Sadness that nothing can fix, certainly not sex. 

He runs his fingers through my hair, as a mother would to a child.

At some point, I finally fall asleep in my husband’s arms.

* * *

“Grams?” I use my key to open the door and call out, looking around.

“Not home?” Pacey queries and I walk into the kitchen depositing the paper bag of groceries onto the counter.

Pacey and I have started falling into a routine the last few weeks. Now that he is settled into his place and working on the restaurant, he finishes early some days. Invites me for lunch somewhere fancy, to ‘get to know the competition’. I relent because, let’s be honest, sitting and working from home most of the time is boring, and I’m easily distracted. He shouts me lunch, and we sometimes walk along the harbor, sometimes explore old hangouts. 

Today, I’m trying to find Grams because it’s my week. We each have a rotation week in a month to visit Grams, take her supplies, check on her wellbeing. Jen calls it the ‘unofficial grams check’ because it seemingly operates without her knowledge. 

“Back here,” I can hear her call from outside.

We move through the house to the yard. She’s getting up slowly from a garden bed and brushing herself to get the dirt off.

“I didn’t know you were coming by today dear,” she says before seeing Pacey behind me, “My goodness, as I live and breathe is that Pacey Witter?” she takes his hand in her own arthritic one and squeezes. Pacey reacts by giving her a hug. 

“I heard on the Boston grapevine that you were back in town.” Grams looks him up and down, taking in his increased frame size since childhood, “Still handsome as ever I see, and single now too I hear.”

Pacey smiles. “It’s good to see you, still taking care of this place all by yourself?”

“Age is but a number, Pacey, my legs and arms and mind still work perfectly fine. A little slower than they used to, but more than enough to get the job done.”

Grams moves from the garden and motions for us to follow her to the house. The lines on her face are a little deeper, her hair still drawn into a low bun on her neck. She’s still the same Grams, adopter of random Grandchildren and lover of all. Still undoubtedly the group’s best listener, willing to bestow sage advice whenever requested, or not requested, for that matter.

She sees the groceries on the table and shakes her head gently.

“It must be Joey’s week, then.” 

She motions to us to sit at the table, and questions Pacey on his last five years. Grams pour us some drinks and places cookies onto a plate, sitting back down. He tells her the story, which of course she knows already. But she wants to hear it from him, listening intently.

When he’s done she shuffles to the fridge and pulls off a torn page from a magazine and places it in front of him. It's the write up about him Gourmet Traveller. She spins it around and reads from it slowly.

“Hand rolled casarecce with pork sausage enlivened by the subtle touches of white wine and radicchio, fresh shavings of pecorino and toasted, crumbled hazelnuts.”

She pauses and looks at him.

“When, Pacey Witter, are you going to make _me_ that dish?”

“I would like that too. Now I’m hungry,” I add.

Pacey laughs. 

“Whenever my friends come over, I show them this article and tell them about the time I taught you and Jen how to make my apple and rhubarb pie. And you couldn’t even properly peel an apple.”

“I will have to credit you with that one, Grams. I had no clue. That pie is amazing, I would put it on the menu but I’ve tried to replicate it, and it’s just not the same as yours.”

“Come around next week, it’s Jen’s week on geriatric-watch I believe, and I’ll make it for you.”

Pacey looks at me and smiles. 

“How is Dawson’s film going?”

“Good, the final editing is finished, it’s ready for audiences now.”

“Well, I’m looking forward to seeing it at the screening. Are you coming, Pacey?”

I look at Pacey and smile, eyebrows raised. “Yes Pacey, are you coming?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” and picks up his first cookie. I’ve already eaten three.

As we chat, I remember how much of our life as teenagers was spent hanging with Grams. Sitting at her worn dining table, eating cookies with her was a staple of Capeside life. Even all these years later, it still feels good. Feels like home.

“I hear you’re running a new venture in culinary expertise in our fair city of Boston?” she asks Pacey.

Pacey nods, “That’s the plan.”

“Well, put me down in the reservations book for opening night. I’ll have the casarecce,” Grams says.

She sits back against his chair. “So what’s this?” she points his finger back and forth between us, “Are you both on week three of look-after-the-old-woman duty now?”

I cough, “No.”

Pacey looks at me, eyebrows raised, then smiles.

“I figured you’d have some making up to do, considering what happened with the wedding,” she drops casually, the kind tone of her voice softening the swift sharp blow.

I sink into my chair.

“I wish I could have been here,” he looks genuinely regretful.

“Joey was so upset.” Grams picks up a cookie and looks at me, “She’s not an emotional sort, as you well know, but it was a rough day. We all missed you.”

“It was fine, really,” I turn to Pacey, trying to shake it off, he looks devastated. 

“Okay,” I stand up suddenly, changing the subject “We had better go, I have a deadline to make tomorrow.”

We say goodbye and promise to meet up at Dawson’s screening. Grams walks us out onto the porch, waving as we get into the car.

I buckle my seat and start the engine. I can feel Pacey looking into me.

“It’s so good to see Grams looking so fit and healthy.”

“Yeah,” I nod but can’t turn towards him.

“You know why I couldn’t be at your wedding, right Jo?”

He reaches out as though he’s going to touch me, but seems to re-think it and instead runs his hands back and forth on his thighs.

I stare at the steering wheel, looking at all its interesting crevices.

“I know,” I mutter, putting the car into gear.

We sit in silence for a while before his hand encircles my arm and turns me towards him. 

“No, Jo, I’m sorry. For all of it. For not being there when you needed your friend there. But I just couldn’t be, not after what happened. I couldn’t look at Dawson, Audrey, myself in the mirror. I couldn’t look at you… marrying him.” He sighs and presses his head against the headrest. “I used Audrey’s family drama as an excuse, and I ran away from everything because it was the easiest thing to do.”

I turn, and I can see Grams, still standing on the porch, watching us, concern in her brow. Pacey looks up and sees her too and with this, he retracts from his gentle hold on my arm. I put up my hand in a casual wave and pull out onto the street.

The truth was, Pacey leaving made everything easier. It was easier to move on. To try to forget.

Easier for me to lie.

To Dawson.

To myself.

So I wasn’t mad at him. I was sad.

Sad that we lost five years of friendship for one stupid night. I wasn’t sure I was ready to admit to myself that I was also sad that he left that morning. That it was a one night mistake to him. Something he wasn’t willing to work through or fight for.

He just left.

* * *

I’ve positioned myself in my favorite morning spot. A pile of fresh newspapers uncracked beside me. A big pot of tea on the coffee table, a bagel and glasses perched on my nose. The prospect of a quiet Sunday reading before me.

The weather is still unseasonably hot, so all the windows are open to get a breeze filtering through. 

Grunts and sighs are coming from down the hall as Dawson burrows through the draws. He is searching for his notebook.

It’s Sunday which is movie morning. Dawson takes the time each week to go see a new movie, with his trusty notepad and any poor sucker who is unlucky enough to get dragged along.

Pacey is this morning’s victim.

Dawson and I had moved past our bedroom episode the other night by doing what all couples do with a gaping problem in a relationship—ignore it.

There is a knock at the door. I reluctantly drag myself off the couch and open it to Pacey, in sunglasses, blue shorts and a white t-shirt leaning against the door jamb. 

“Dawson!” I yell, “Your date’s here!”

Against my better judgment, I let my eyes glide over Pacey’s form. He seems to do the same to me.

“Are you not joining us today?” he asks.

I shake my head, “I have had my fair share of film review dates thankyouverymuch.”

“Can’t even lure you with popcorn and a coke?” he asks, “My treat.”

“I’ve eaten enough fake butter movie popcorn for two lifetimes, Witter, you’ll need something better than that to lure me out.”

He looks at my little reading nook set up on the couch.

“Quiet morning at home?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Where’s D?”

“He can’t find his notebook, and he’s having a little breakdown,” I explain.

“Oh god. A notebook?”

I smile. “Yeah, I hope you’re prepared.”

“Is he going to take notes _during_ the movie? He’s really amped things up.”

“Yes, he is. It’s terribly embarrassing. I’m just so glad it’s you, and not me.” 

“You _sure_ you don’t want to come?” Pacey pleads.

“I have a date with my newspapers. But thanks for the invite.”

He glares at me, disappointed.

“When you’re having the obligatory de-brief on the film afterward, be sure to inject the words Noir and The Male Gaze somewhere in there, and you’ll be fine,” I say, patting him on the arm. 

Dawson comes out of the room, notebook in hand and a smile on his face.

“Found it,” he beams, holding it up. 

“Goodie!” says Pacey.

“Now don’t eat too much popcorn boys.”

“Yes, Mrs. Leery and I’ll have him home by 6 pm,” Pacey salutes me.

Dawson stops and gives a quick peck on my cheek before he starts out the door.

“See you Wednesday,” I say to Pacey, who is still leaning on the door frame.

“I’ll be there. I even got a new suit for the occasion.”

“Fancy,” I smile. Pacey finally straightens and moves to leave.

“Nice outfit, by the way,” Pacey quips as he closes the door.

I look down and realize I’m wearing only an oversize t-shirt and underwear.


	7. Seven

Rushing in the door, I throw my keys onto the table and start pulling off hells in a frenzied dance.

“Joey?” Dawson calls out, then walks into the room “We’re supposed to be there already!”

My fingers hover behind my back, searching out the tiny snag of the zipper, “I know, I know, Amtrak was delayed. I’m getting dressed right now, 3 minutes maximum!”

Dawson sighs, pacing back and forth, scrolling through his phone.

“I’ll fix my makeup in the car,” I say, mid-sprint into the bedroom. In seconds my clothes lay in a rumpled tangle on the floor and I throw on my dress, which thankfully I’d laid out earlier. Running a brush through my hair, I spray on some deodorant and appear back in the lounge, holding my shoes in my hand. Cinderella on the way to the ball, albeit slightly more disheveled and lacking a fairy godmother.

My dress is long, black silk and completely backless. It won’t allow for a bra or underwear, so I check myself in the mirror to make sure everything is where it should be. I run my hands over the cool material and hurriedly smooth down my sides. Dawson glances at the dress silently and then back to his phone.

As I reach for my clutch, he looks up at me exasperated.

“I _knew_ you’d be late,” he shakes his head. My inherent tardiness for most appointments grated at him in the best of times. I felt a pang of regret for not running that little bit faster, trying to catch the earlier train.

Keys jingling in his hand, he turns and walks out the door.

“Dawson, I’m sorry,” I grab his hand and spin him toward me. “We will be there on time, we still have fifteen minutes. The director never shows up on time to these things. You need to make an entrance!” I attempt to make a good situation out of a bad one.

He doesn’t buy it for a second.

“But,” he starts.

“Dawson Leery, RELAX! You’ve got this, the screening is going to be great, everyone will love it,” I exude positivity, eyes wide, holding his gaze, trying to calm him. He’s nervous. Everything he’s worked for since he was a child has led up to this moment. He wants it to be perfect. For Dawson, it was perfection or nothing.

He sighs, letting the tension in his shoulders ease. I peer at him with my famed doe eyes and they render him weak. A smile tinges his jaw, he leans over and kisses me, “Okay, yes. Let’s go.”

We drive fast.

* * *

The screening is as screenings tend to be, long, drawn-out affairs. Dawson marked the occasion with an extended post-film speech about his influences, his vision and the obligatory reference or two to Speilberg. Of course, everyone loves it. Dawson sat beside me in silence, carefully gauging the audience’s reactions. Listening intently for laughs in the right places and happy when he can see hands swipe at tears in the harrowing closing scene.

I’m by his side, smiling for photos with numerous strangers and shaking hands in ‘congratulations’ and ‘thankyou’ as the night wears on. Everyone is there, people I know, mostly people I don’t. The air is buzzing with excitement. I’m buzzing from an open-bar and liberal refills of champagne.

Jen appears and hugs Dawson.

“It was incredible Dawson, really. It’s going to get picked up, I just know it. I’m so proud of you.”

Dawson glows, “Thanks Jen,” before being pulled away by another admiring fan.

The producers have hired out a small venue to show the screening and enjoy drinks afterward. They’d invited critics, investors, film festival spotters and all the actors for this East Coast screening. Next week, the same would happen in LA, but without me.

“How is the fun table?” I ask Jen, motioning to the table I wish I was sitting at. Jack is there with Doug, Grams, Pacey and some other casual friends and acquaintances. Everyone at the fun table is laughing at something Grams is saying.

Jen nudges me and whispers, “Poor Jo has to sit at the boring table?”

I pout my bottom lip out dramatically.

“I will need to go soon, anyway. The babysitter turns into a pumpkin at 10,” she says.

“Really? I was hoping we could blow this joint and all have a drink afterward together?”

Dawson overhears my comment, looks at me and frowns.

I turn to Jen with puppy dog eyes and a sigh, “I can’t come out and play.”

Dawson puts his hand around my waist, “Oh come on you big baby, we’ve got to go and speak to Jerry Liberman, he’s one of the executive producers. See you, Jen.” I give her a little wave, and follow Dawson to the next table.

* * *

It’s getting late, and the room is slowly starting to empty. We’ve spoken to producers, executive producers, co-executive producers. All these people who believed in Dawson enough to back him, to help him realize his dream. He shows his appreciation, in person, to each and every one.

Sitting beside one of the elderly actors from the film who is recounting tales of her dalliances in the sixties with Steve McQueen and Paul Newman. I was fading, the champagne beginning to wear off. My cheeks ache from smiling.

I reach for my glass. Empty. The waiters have become more sparse on refills as the night wore on.

My phone vibrates in my handbag, and I pull it out.

**10.27 pm from Pacey Witter** How’s the riveting conversation?

Spinning in my chair, I seek him out. He’s not at the fun table. I can’t see him anywhere.

**10.28 pm from Joey Leery** Dying! Send wine.

Diane moves on to tell me all about her purebred spaniel cross poodle, Sprinkles and his medication regime.

A body leans over my shoulder, champagne bottle in hand, and starts to fill my flute. Bubbles cascade, floating from the bottom to the top, tiny yellow buttons and I watch them intently. So focused I barely register the presence, glad for the top-up when I recognize the scent.

I know who it is.

Instantly, my cheeks flush and my arm grows warm with him beside it. His waist grazes my shoulder as he leans in, holding the bottle with precision. I forget to breathe for the entirety of the exchange.

Diane motions to him to fill her glass too.

Pacey moves towards her, performing the same elaborate, waiter-like move and fills hers. As he pours, his eyes raise to meet mine. It’s the first look I’ve received this evening from those blue eyes. 

It’s a good one.

He’s wearing a dark grey suit, crisp white shirt and light grey tie loosened. The suit is so well cut it looks like his body has been poured into it. I take the flute between my fingers, the cool of it startling my suddenly hot fingertips. Pressing it to my lips, I hesitate, reminding myself to keep breathing, in and out.

In and out.

His eyes dip to my dress for a second longer than appropriate. The corner of his mouth curls, he winks and departs as quickly as he came.

I take a series of settling sips.

My phone vibrates again.

**10.33 pm from Pacey Witter** That dress Jo. Are you trying to kill me?

A smile spreads across my cheeks, and I put my phone back into my clutch.

Yes, maybe I am.

* * *

The room nearly empty, only a few stragglers remain. Wait staff are clearing off tables, loading one empty glass after another into large grey trays. The members of the fun table were long gone, their chairs all pushed out. I feel my eyes dip and loll, exhaustion taking over.

Even Dawson has slowed considerably, no doubt overwhelmed by it all. He steers me to the bar with promises that it’s the last meet and greet of the evening. I’m introduced to Kay, a tall woman with a neat, blonde bob who may in her early sixties, but it’s hard to tell. She has the face of botox and tucks, shiny and immovable. She registers me with a polite nod. I stare back at her with a friendly smile, trying to place her. 

“Many congratulations Dawson, it’s been such a pleasure, this will surely propel you, I heard whispers about Sundance.”

“Thank you, Kay, I couldn’t have done it without your support.” Dawson turns to me “Kay has been one of our major investors.”

The bathroom door opens and a tall blonde exits, strolling on stiletto heels, she moves towards us and stands beside Kay. I see it in my peripheral vision before I turn my head. I know who it is, but I’m suddenly rendered incapacitated and too shaken to make eye contact.

Audrey Liddell.

“Hey guys,” Audrey says with a small wave.

I eye the exits, feeling a cold flow of dread settle in my stomach.

“Audrey is the one who suggested I take a second look at that script of yours, Dawson.”

“Audrey!” Dawson leans in and grabs her for a hug. “Wow, it’s been years, I can’t believe you’re here!” she smiles and smooths down her dress. Wearing a stunning green strapless dress, she looks incredible.

She motions to me with an awkward ‘hi’ and a brief smile. We don’t hug, not like old times. There were days when she’d barrel across the room, screaming ‘Bunny!’ and encase me in her arms. Not anymore.

“Yeah, I got a good chance to catch up, chatting to the ‘old gang,” she motions to the empty fun table. The dread tracks from my stomach to my chest, constricting my heart.

Audrey smiles “I’m so glad Pacey is back here with friends and some support,” she says, voice level, almost practiced. It lacks the California appeal of the Audrey we once knew.

“I bet you’re happy to have him back,” she adds, and her eyes flick from Dawson and land directly on mine.

Fuck.

“Yeah, it’s great,” confirms Dawson.

“Audrey has stepped up recently and taken a seat on our board, she has a key role now in working with some of the big studios to secure funding,” Kay explains, clearly proud of her daughter, which, if memory would serve, was not always the case.

“I’m so glad you could see my vision,” Dawson adds.

I’m trying to remember how to breathe, how to remain casual. Open mouth, let lungs fill with air. Exhale. Repeat. It’s immeasurably harder than normal with Audrey’s eyes on me.

“Will we be seeing you at the LA premiere?” Dawson asks Kay.

“Certainly, I look forward to seeing you.”

“It was great seeing you again, Audrey. We must all catch up together when we have more time,” says Dawson, a genuine smile on his lips.

“For sure,” she replies, with a plastic grin and they turn to leave.

I’ve never been more sure of anything that we will never be catching up again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I realize this is a very short chapter. The next one is quite long, hope to have it up soon.


	8. Eight

Waking slowly, I peel myself from the sheets and pad into the lounge. Dawson’s suitcase sits packed by the door, covered in half-peeled baggage labels from his life of flying. He sits at the dining table, eating a bagel and reading the newspaper. I see his face printed in the entertainment section. 

“Good morning,” I sing-song with as much pep as I can muster this early in the day and pour a coffee from the pot, “Are you famous now?”

“It’s been officially nominated for the Toronto International Film Festival.”

“That’s amazing, Dawson!”

He huffs and shakes his head, “They spelled my name Dagson.”

I try not to laugh. 

“Who cares how they spelled your name. They like your film, actually, they love it, that should be all that matters.”

He picks up his plate, deposits it in the sink, and hesitates.

“Joey, I’m going to have to move out to LA for a while.”

“What? Why?”

“With all the press and distribution running from there, it’s just going to be so much easier. I mean, I’m flying out this morning, then back again after not even forty hours there. It’s madness.”

I knew this was coming, but I’d pretended at least to myself that he would work around it.

“Will you come with me? And I don’t mean just mean temporarily. I think we need to talk about LA being part of our future.”

I hesitate. My reasoning for moving back to Boston last time was that my career was taking off, the work for me was here. But now, the tables were turned. His career was there and my work had become more flexible.

“I’m not asking for a decision now. But please think about it. I want to be with you, not wasting my days flying back and forth. Maybe we’ve got to start thinking about something past this, past Boston?”

Tucking my hair behind my ears I look at my husband. I think about the life I have here, the friends I have here, Jen, Jack, Grams … Pacey. Capeside is only a drive away, our families are easily accessible.

“Can I think about it? We can talk more when you’re not rushing out the door.”

The smile across his face tells me he’s satisfied with my reply.

Picking up his keys, he asks, “Still heading back to Capeside today?”

I nod. Bessie had been calling and hounding me about visiting and helping with the accounts. I’d relented for a while but found myself foundering at home. Writing on my book had all but stalled, again. I couldn’t put my fingers to the keys. The words would float through my head, but I had no means to record them. I convinced myself that a trip to Capeside would be good, rest for a day, freshen my mind. 

“Well, have fun. My flight gets in at four on Sunday. Details are on the fridge.” he kisses me on the cheek and heads out the door.

I go to the bedroom to get dressed. The weather is promising over 100 so I put on a peach-colored summer sundress that ties at the waist.

My phone vibrates.

 **6.47 am from Pacey Witter** Are you still heading to Capeside today?

 **6.48 am from Joey Leery** Yep

 **6.48 am from Pacey Witter** Wanna Lift?

 **6.49am from Joey Leery**??

 **6.49am from Pacey Witter** It’s mom’s birthday today. I really _should_ go, even if I’d prefer scooping my eyeballs out with a spoon.

 **6.50 am from Joey Leery** Birthday guilt is strong. I’d love a lift. I’m just visiting Bessie, so pretty flexible with times.

 **6.51 am from Pacey Witter** Be there in 20?

 **6.51 am from Joey Leery** Ok.

It had been a few weeks since I’d heard from him. Our Wednesday catch-ups had been put on temporary hold. The restaurant was nearing completion, and he was preparing for the opening. I’d wanted to talk to him, about Audrey, about my inability to write, about everything, about nothing. Feel the warm feeling of just chatting with a friend. 

I put on mascara and wash the breakfast dishes. Suddenly moving quicker than before. A horn sounds from downstairs.

Pacey is waiting in a large black SUV with heavily tinted windows. He rolls down the window and dips his sunglasses at me. I roll my eyes, hopping inside.

“Geez Pacey, I feel like the secret service should be running beside us in this thing! Are these the new wheels?”

He nods, hands me an iced-coffee and points to a large pink box on the center console. The car is lovely and cool, the leather seats strip the heat from my back. Fresh-faced and smiling, he pulls out into the traffic.

“A+ for service Pace, a ride, food and coffee! I think I’ll just request your chauffeur services every time I want to go anywhere.” 

He points to the iced coffee, “I know you’re strictly an Americano coffee girl, but it’s 85 already. I figured flinging some ice in it might aid in its appeal?”

“Infinitely.”

“And they asked about whipped cream and I thought, what the hell, let’s live a little.”

“You of all people should know, the answer to whipped cream, is always yes.”

“Basic Logic.”

I nod, “Excellent decision,” take a long sip and murmur, “creamy deliciousness.” 

He stares pointedly ahead.

Pacey is dressed much more casually than his suit at the screening. Wearing a well-fitting button-down t-shirt that looks decidedly expensive and shorts, but still looking very well put together. I ponder when it was that Pacey graduated from oversized hawaiian shirts and cargo shorts to _this_. 

“Sorry I didn’t get a chance to catch up with you the other night,” I apologize. “I was stuck schmoozing with the boring people.”

He chuckles, “Yes, I could tell you were less than impressed.”

“Oh God, was I that obvious? I try to hide it but as it gets later in the night and, well, all the champagne, I start to crack.”

“It’s okay. I only noticed because I know you. I know your face, to the untrained eye it would have looked normal. Nothing to see here.”

“Thanks for the refill, by the way.”

“The pleasure was all mine.”

I take a sip of my coffee and peek into the box. Bear claws and original glazed, my favorites. 

I take a bear claw and hand him one. I’m stalling asking the question I want, instead focusing on the pastry, which proves an easy distraction. Butter, flour, sugar all dissolving on my tongue.

“So,” I pause, “After you left, guess who I spoke to?”

He peels his eyes off the road and looks at me.

“She talked to you?”

“Yep.”

“Wow. Okay,” He squints in the sunlight, thinking. “Um, was she okay?”

“She was fine. Polite.”

There are more questions I need to ask. Did you tell Audrey it was me? How much does she know? But voicing these will require voicing the unspoken, finally speaking about what transpired, after five long years. I don’t think we’re ready. 

I’m certainly not.

“Did you know she was coming?”

I see his hands grip and regrip more firmly on the steering wheel, eyes staying trained on the road.

“No. But she knew that we would all be there, so I think she might have been trying to surprise us. She sat with us for about an hour, we all reminisced about the college years. It was awkward, to say the least.”

I nod, thinking about my own awkward encounter.

“She looks amazing.”

He nods and takes a bite.

“Did you know she was in Boston, investing in Dawson’s film?”

“Nope.”

“How do you feel about that?” A speckled trail of buttery crumbs falls as I bite and lands across my lap and his new car. Swiping at them, I only succeed in pushing them to the clean black floor, landing like snowflakes.

“Geez Joey, you act like I’ve got a say in what she does now. She does whatever the hell she likes. I can’t stop her coming to Boston _or_ investing in Dawson’s film.” he’s uncomfortable. I look out the window watching the traffic, the buildings pass by.

I decide to leave it. Pushing this line of questioning could only lead me to places I wasn’t sure I wanted to go. 

He sighs and reaches his arm across to nudge me, “Sorry. It’s a bit of a sore point.”

I turn to him and smile, reaching over and commandeering the radio. 

We listen to Easy FM and watch the traffic fade, the buildings grow shorter and the grass becomes greener. I crack the window and can smell the familiar salt air of home. We pass the ‘Welcome to Capeside’ sign.

“Why do I get an impending sense of doom every time I come here?” I ask.

“Because our formative years were a tumultuous, hormonal roller coaster ride with a side order of self-imposed drama?”

“I think you hit the nail on the head. When I’m here I love it, it’s all memories and the feel of home, but at the same time, after a few hours I’m impatient to get out.”

“I understand that feeling implicitly, Jo,” he pauses, “But don’t you ever wish you could go back?”

“To Capeside?” I ask, shocked.

He laughs, “No, to being a kid. The older I get, the more I feel the pull to being that free again. You know, no responsibilities, no bills. Back then he thought things were infinitely more difficult than they were. They were just the first few steps in a lifetime of difficulties that just get harder and harder. When I was fifteen, I woke up, I put on my clothes, I ambled down the street, the ladies all followed - of course, and I bought a coke, and maybe swam at the beach and harassed a stunning brunette until she punched me. And somehow, I thought those days were hard.”

Pacey pauses and I watch him intently, his eyes still trained on the road.

He continues, “Sometimes I wish I could go back and smack myself silly.”

“You don’t have to go back Pace,” I say saccharine, “I’ll smack you right now.”

His smile warms.

“Gracious as always Potter,” he turns down the gravel drive towards Bessie’s house. Down the road he taught me to drive stick, in a blue truck, arm draped behind my shoulders.

“Don’t get me wrong, I see the appeal. To be young, single, sun-kissed skin, not a wrinkle in sight.” I say.

He makes the final turn and pulls to a stop out the front of Bessie’s house. The door opens and she comes out onto the porch.

He laughs, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “You were never single, Jo. Not really.”

I grab my handbag as Bessie stands, hands on hips, watching the car speculatively. The tinted windows are preventing her from seeing Pacey inside. I don’t wish to subject him to her onslaught today about the past. Time had not made Bessie any better at forgiveness.

“Just come by whenever you’re done. I’ll be here.” I say.

“Want to go for a drink after?” he dips his sunglasses to look at me.

“We’re both spending the day with family in Capeside, Pace. A drink would be obligatory.”

He chuckles, nodding as I close the car door.

* * *

I spend the morning helping Bessie with bookwork for the B&B. The dining table spread with paperwork, our coffee mugs filled at all times. We work for a few minutes before falling into chatter about life. 

“And you don’t want to move to LA?”

I shake my head, pounding keys on the calculator, then transcribing the numbers.

“LA is not for me, you know that Bess, I hated it last time.”

“Well then tell him no, Joey. You have a say in your life too, you know. You’re an East Coaster, your family is here, _his_ family is here.”

“But his career is there,” I add.

“ _Everything_ is about his career, Jo. Even when he was making shitty movies that no-one cared about it was still all about him. You know I love Dawson but his focus is solely on his own goals. Your happiness is an afterthought.”

I feel an odd pang of defensiveness for him, “But last time, he moved back to Boston for me.”

She scoffs, “He only agreed to move back because he was embarrassed that things weren’t taking off like he’d anticipated. He labeled it as moving for you, Jo, but don’t for a second think that it was for you.”

I hang my head, “Geez, Bess, don't mince words.”

“Why would I? You asked me for my opinion and I’m giving it to you. If you don’t want to move. Say no. Let _him_ work out how to deal with that.” She places her palms against the table, effectively closing the conversation. 

Deep down, I know she’s right, but my fifteen-year-old self stuffs that admission somewhere into my chest cavity. 

* * *

She makes club sandwiches for lunch and we eat them in the yard, our old chairs in the green grass. Mosquitoes buzz about in the humidity, the trill of birds a welcome sound after years in the city.

“I cannot _believe_ Pacey is back,” Bessie keeps rounding back to the same topic despite my numerous attempts to steer her in other directions.

Her face raised, watching me for a reaction. I pick at the lettuce in my sandwich.

“Why are you even speaking to him, Joey? I don’t understand any of this.”

Taking a long sip of lemonade and another bite, I try to shrug her off.

“Jo, I was one of Pacey’s biggest fans, you know that. He helped with the B&B and he was always such a great friend to you. For years you were joined at the hip! But friends don’t do that, they don’t cut themselves out of your life the day of your wedding.”

When I don’t answer she continues, “It was probably Audrey, that hasty wedding they had in a week. He used to come here for Christmas breakfast every year, then, nothing, not even a phone call. Alexander asked about him for years.”

Looking up, I realize something I’d neglected to notice in the pits of my own malaise. That I wasn’t the only one Pacey left. He was an extended part of our little family. Bessie was angry at him because she too felt abandoned. And to her, it was utterly without reason.

“You need to go easy on him Bess, he’s been through a divorce, he’s lost that part of his life. I’ve moved on. I think you need to also.”

She sips her drink and scrutinizes me over the rim.

“There’s more to it, isn’t there? There was a fallout, or something happened that caused him to leave, _right_?”

Keeping my eyes fixed on hers despite my yearning to retreat, I make a slow nod. 

Bessie returns my nod a silent communication that she understands whatever cryptic message I’m trying to send her. 

And by some miracle, she leaves well enough alone. 

* * *

At 6.30, Pacey’s car rolls up the drive. Bessie follows me out and walks to stand by his window, waiting for him to roll it down.

I jump in the passenger side and look over, Bessie is giving him a mom-glare that’s penetrating tinted windows and making even me cringe.

Pacey doesn’t roll down the window, he opens the door and steps out. Her glare holds for a few moments, but he leans forward and wraps her in a hug. She seems a little shocked by the gesture but warms into it quickly. She shares with me a soft smile from over his shoulder.

“I missed you, Bess,” he says, apologetic.

“I missed you too.”

They stand in awkward silence for a moment before Bessie’s hands go to her hips and her finger comes out, waggling.

“Pacey J Witter, if you ever abandon us all like that again, I will personally find you and remove each one of your fingers mobster style.”

“Understood,” He chuckles, then flashes serious, “I’m sorry Bess.”

She waves her hand, “Christmas is only a few months away. Shall I set you a place? You going to hang around that long?”

He nods, “I’ll even offer my cooking services.”

Bessie holds up her hands in prayer, “Then you’re definitely welcome anytime.”

* * *

The bar is humming. People crammed into all the spaces. Hot and sticky, smelling of stale beer and grease. We hover around and hang close to a couple leaving. I hip-check a group of guys as we race into a small corner booth. Pacey gets us some drinks while I save his seat with my feet, order some chili-cheese fries and takes his place across from me.

Conversation flows. Beer flows. The music seems to get louder. The booth is small. His large frame folded into the chair, long legs touching my seat. I can feel the heat emanating from them, so close to mine.

“Okay, I’ve got an idea.”

“Shoot.”

“Let’s go fishing,” he says, spreading his arms out with raised eyebrows.

“What? No way!” I wave him off.

‘Fishing’ was a game we used to play in college. When we were sitting at bars, bored, we would challenge each other to a fishing contest. We would set out, one at a time, watchtimer ready to see who could get a phone number the quickest. The rules were - no rules. Everyone in the bar was fair game. If someone was extremely good looking, you got 20 seconds shaved off your time. The loser bought the winner a drink. Of course, Pacey was the master at fishing. He was hard to beat in his day. Jen was close behind, always scoring well. Jack would fish for girls, despite his orientation as he seemed to have a better strike rate with them. Dawson struggled, he got bogged down in the chatting, the life story, and would often forget about the clock entirely.

“Come on, Jo, it’s fun, a little healthy competition.”

“You only say that because you were the undefeated champion. Didn’t you reel someone in 22 seconds?” I ask

He scoffs, affronted, “21 seconds, and you know it.”

I shake my head and roll my eyes dramatically, “It was cheating.”

“It was charm. One hundred percent, pure unadulterated charm, Potter.”

“You’re incorrigible,” I say, taking a gulp of my beer.

“I know,” he smirks, leaning closer, voice lower, “But you _want_ to challenge me, don’t you? If you’re not the best at every little thing in life, it drives you insane.”

He’s not wrong.

He continues, “I mean, I _could_ teach you? Of course, some things are lost in translation, I think it has something to do with pheromones, general irresistibility,” his hands punctuate his words.

“Bite me, Pace.”

The smile drops from his face, eyes darken, and he snaps his teeth like a crocodile.

“It’s fine, I get it, you’re scared to lose. Worried you don’t have what it takes anymore. We’re a _lot_ older now,” he baits me. 

I stand up and straighten my dress, pulling it down a little at the front and smoothing my hair, “Alright asshole, let's do this. Get your timer ready.”

He smiles smugly, rubbing his hands together and takes out his phone. He hits START and I am off like a greyhound chasing a rabbit.

Remembering my wedding ring I dart back, pry it off my finger, and slam it down in front of him. He picks it up, passes it between long fingers, then places it back down on the sticky wooden tabletop.

“I don’t think that would have been an issue,” he smiles.

“I’m not taking any chances.”

I scan the crowd in search of a victim. Packs of guys together were the easiest targets. Scan for wedding rings, I spot a man with a beard, mid-thirties. Standing against the wall with friends, beer in hand. He has a friendly smile. No wedding ring. Winner!

I steady myself, put on my sweetest smile and approach him.

“Excuse me, are you Steven?”

He looks around, confused. “No, I’m Matt,” his friends chuckle.

“Oh sorry,” I touch his arm apologetically, and linger on his skin for a moment, “I’m here with my friend, and I’ve been chatting to a guy on a dating app, Steven. He was supposed to meet me here at least an hour ago but, it looks like I’ve been stood up. Sorry, I guess I saw you and was hoping it might be you.”

One of the hardest things I always found with fishing was knowing Pacey was watching. It was a challenge enough not to laugh if we happened to make eye contact. Stay serious, hook the victim.

But he is there, in the booth, in my peripheral vision. Arm casually slung over the top of the seat. Head turned, watching me. Even from across the room, I can feel his eyes on me, burning heat into my skin.

Focus, Joey!

Matt was hooked; he was easy. He is so sad to hear about the bastard that stood me up. His friends are eager to push him towards me and pick up the slack that Steven had left. I leave with a brief hug and head back to the table, hitting the stop timer on my return.

I pass Pacey a napkin with a hastily scrawled number.

Seven minutes forty-eight seconds. Not my greatest effort.

“He was an easy target,” Pacey challenged.

“No way!”

“Yeah, the only guy in a group with no wedding ring, standing around looking desperate.”

“Oh, he was not, he was nice!” I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince. I play with my ring on the table but don’t put it back on straight away. 

“Fine. Your turn, show me how it’s done, and NO mentioning the Michelin Star or Gourmet Traveller! That’s not fair.”

Hand to his chest, shocked, “What? That’s my hook, I’ve never been able to use it fishing before. I think I’ve earned it!”

I shake my head.

Pacey stands and runs his fingers through his hair, “Fine, watch and learn.” 

I set the timer on his phone, and he strides off. Long legs carrying him over to the bar. I examine the way he moves, all confidence, his t-shirt, dark blue, clinging to his chest, defining muscles he never had before. Age is probably going to make it easier for him to catch a fish, not harder. Bastard.

His body leans against the bar as he orders a drink from the bartender. I remember this move. He likes to approach his victim with a drink in hand as an icebreaker. Unfortunate victim, she doesn’t stand a chance.

My phone vibrates.

 **From Dawson Leery** Hey babe. Landed safely and had a good day meeting execs from studio about next film. Talk to you tomorrow.

 **From Joey Leery** Excellent. Have fun. xo. 

I don’t feel the need to tell him where I am. He didn’t exactly ask. No harm, no foul.

I look up, and Pacey is approaching the booth with two Martinis. He stands at the end of the table and puts one in front of me.

“There is NO way you’re back already!” I shriek, looking at the timer. 2 minutes 53 seconds.

“Hi, I saw you sitting over here by yourself. I thought you might like a drink. I’m Pacey,” he holds his palm out toward me. I stare at it, confused. I lift my hand and shake his slowly. What is happening? I begin to wonder how many drinks I’ve had.

“What’s your name?”

His eyes are smiling at me, pleading. Little creases appeared on his forehead. He’s willing me to play this game with him.

I stare back at him. Is he really going to do this?

Go fishing?

_For me?_

I contemplate the thought for a moment. What could be worse than Pacey trying to woo me? And I know how to play this game, so I can make this timer go on forever. Suddenly I feel like this might be the perfect opportunity to ensure my victory.

“Joey.”

“Nice to meet you, Joey, do you mind if I sit? Or are you waiting for someone?”

I motion to the seat, “make yourself at home.”

He gently touches his fingers against my rings, sitting in the middle of the table and looks up at me, concerned.

“Are these yours? Are you married?”

“No, no,” I pick them up and slip them onto my right hand, holding it up to show him.

“What are you doing here tonight, do you live in Boston?”

“I do.”

“I can’t believe I’ve never seen you here before. What do you do, Joey?”

I thought about it for a moment. It’s a pretend world, isn’t it? This is a pretend conversation? I decide I’m going to be exactly who I want to be... I’m going all in.

“I’m an artist.”

“Wow, that’s awesome! How long have you been doing that?”

“Since I finished college. I was lucky enough to get an internship at the New York Fine Art Institute. I moved there, rented a small apartment. I started selling some pieces here and there, now I paint on the side and run a small gallery here.”

It hurt a little even saying it, this version of my life. The version where I don’t base my life choices on Dawson, where I’m free to do exactly what I want.

“What do you do?”

“I’m a chef. Quite a famous one, actually, _one_ Michelin star,” he grins a wide shit-eating grin, dimples forming in his cheeks. 

“Is that so?”

“Yep. Maybe you read the article in Gourmet Traveller about me?” he is laying it on thick.

I laugh, deep in my belly. Pacey joins in, breaking character for a moment.

“Well, I hope maybe one day you will cook for me,” I wink, playing along.

“Oh, I intend to!” 

His thigh grazes mine under the table. If he felt it, he certainly doesn’t flinch. I most definitely feel it. The touch sends a pulse through me, ripples of electricity.

“Are you single?” he asks, swirling his fingers absentmindedly on the martini glass and taking a sip.

I nod, making direct eye contact.

“You?”

Those blue eyes stare at me. He nods back.

Our fries finally come to the table. As soon as I smell them I realize how hungry I am, I need something to soak up the alcohol. I dig in.

“I love a woman who eats in front of a man,” he watches the fries travel from my hand to my mouth.

“Well, then maybe we’re meant to be!” I lean toward him and slowly, casually run fingertips down his forearm. 

My signature ‘fishing’ move.

He freezes momentarily. I can see the hairs on his arm standing on end. 

As we get lost in our ‘date,’ I learn what it might be like to actually enjoy a date with Pacey. He’s flirtatious, attentive, playful. Sometimes it’s nice to play pretend. Our relationship has always had the shadow of Dawson not far from my side, so imagining a life where I’m just myself is a little thrilling. Even if it’s just for tonight, I can be whoever I want to be. The person I wish I were, with Pacey.

I look down at the timer - 1 hour 45 minutes - and smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure what I was drinking when I thought I would finish this in ten chapters. So I'm just going to roll with it and see where this story leads.  
> Thank you for your lovely comments and kudos. Each one is the kick in the ass I need to sit back in front of the laptop and keep going.


	9. Nine

It’s nearing midnight. The apartment sits quiet as I tap away in the dark, the light from the laptop illuminating my face. The trip to Capeside had done what I’d hoped, it had cleared my mind. In the month since I’d returned, the words I’d been searching for flowed with the force of a broken dam. 

I pause for a minute and glance at my phone, typing another text to Pacey. He would be closing up the restaurant now, still awake.

 **From Joey Leery:** You free for a coffee tomorrow?

I keep sending these messages to him and they remain unanswered. He’s busy, I remind myself. 

We were all invited to Pacey’s restaurant opening, which had been a grand affair. But despite the dress I’d bought for the occasion, the makeup carefully applied, and the soft smile I’d delivered across the room. He made his way around each table and hadn’t breathed a word to me.

When he finally made his way to our table, he stood beside Jack in his chef’s whites. He told us about the courses in-depth and then departed, without so much as a glance in my direction. I never had a chance to tell him how beautiful the space was, how he’d honored the history of the building, but made it his own. How the crème caramel tasted like heaven, from the crack of the sugar crust to the way it dissolved on my tongue, like a vanilla kiss.

I check my phone. No response.

Dawson’s flight from LA is delayed, again. So I bask in the last few moments of quiet I have. Before he comes back and I’m forced to have some real discussions with him. Ones where I tell him that I’m not going to move to LA. I’d put off this talk as long as possible. He’d made three trips there in four weeks, all without me.

Bessie’s words had resonated. This was my life too, I didn’t need to meld my existence into his. We were a couple, sure, but two separate people with separate dreams. 

I dreaded the conversation. So each minute that passed meant another minute I could be alone, in the quiet.

A key in the front door eventually turns and I snap my head up, watching the lock move. Dawson enters and closes it louder than appropriate for this time of evening. He looks at me wordlessly, goes to the fridge and takes out a beer. I save my document and creep into the kitchen towards him. The streetlights ricochet scattered beams across his troubled face.

“Hey, what’s up?” I ask, voice tentative.

He turns away from me, head down.

I approach him and rub his back, the way he likes, “Come on, Dawson, it’s okay, did you have a bad day?” I draw circles with my hand. 

He shrugs from my touch and stalks to the other side of the kitchen.

“Come on, what happened?” I press. Imploring him to look at me.

Dawson is silent, drinking his beer. He rests against the counter. 

He draws a labored breath and starts speaking, “I had brunch with Audrey today in LA, before my flight,” he says finally. Quietly, watching me, awaiting my reaction.

I try not to flinch, willing the muscles in my face to remain passive. But what I mask on the outside, inside my heart rages, beats quickening. 

“Okay?”

He is silent again, finishing his beer in a quick gulp before going to the fridge to get another. He loosens his tie and throws it onto the counter lazily.

Dawson is trying to find words. I’ve lived with him for years, existed as his _soulmate_ for longer. He takes protracted moments to process. Each second that ticks past incrementally speeds my pulse rate.

“Is it true?” he asks.

I freeze, mouth suddenly dry.

“Is _what_ true?” I almost can’t get the sound out, my tongue like sandpaper. When I do, I barely hear them over the crashing sound of my own heart drumming through my veins.

“Did you fuck him?” he says, voice eerily level. Eyes finally meeting mine.

I don’t reply. Can’t reply.

“Did you _fuck_ my _best friend_?” He is suddenly screaming at me, spitting with rage and venom, unmoving. Anger drips from his pores. He takes a deep breath and repeats himself. “Did you _fuck_ my _best friend_ the day before _our wedding_?”

Moving back, I creep out of the small space with him. Not afraid he will hurt me, just afraid.

I blink away tears that blur my vision.

Words to respond don’t come, I lay my face in my hands. My silence is tantamount to an admission of guilt.

“Are you _fucking kidding me!_?” He jumps from the counter towards me. Beer breaches the rim and spills from his bottle.

I hang my head and focus on the pale puddles on floorboards.

I’m going to be sick, I’m sure.

“Why?”

“WHY!!?” He yells.

I hold up my hands, “I don’t know! It was a mistake.”

He laughs, over and over again. He is laughing at me, tears in his eyes.

“There I am, sitting, enjoying my avocado sourdough toast and Audrey asks me how on earth I got over what happened. And then I sit there, like an idiot, like I’m the only person in the world that doesn’t know that my _wife fucked my best friend._ ”

“Daws..”

He cuts me off, “ _Fuck you_!” a shaking finger points towards my chest, only inches away. "No wonder he bailed, he was running away, the coward."

I think about defending Pacey, offering an explanation, but now is not the time.

“Tell me, do you love him? Does he love you?” He spits, laughing.

The words slice, but I refuse to let it show.

I move to him and attempt to take his hand, to calm him.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.” Tears are coming now, hard and fast, “I’m so sorry Dawson.” Words I should have said five years earlier, before all of this mess, and just walked away.

He lets me hold his hand for a moment before ripping it away and stalking into the lounge. I follow him.

He spins around, finger again pointed towards me.

“Have you been fucking him the whole time since he’s been back?”

“God, no Dawson.”

“Let me rephrase that, have _you_ fucked _him_ since he’s been back?”

I search for a word, any word, but I can’t find one.

Dawson laughs again. The laughing much scarier than the yelling.

I want him to keep screaming at me, to yell, to get it all out. To tell me all the horrible things I know I am. All the things I’ve hidden from everyone, from myself, for years. A cheater, a liar, an adulterer.

“You get it, _right_? You see why I’m mad? My _entire marriage_ is based on a lie.”

I nod, agreeing.

“On our wedding day, on our Honeymoon, when we were in Bermuda, _he_ was _inside you_ just days earlier! That’s fucked up, right? You see that, right? And at _no_ point in five years of marriage, could you tell _me, your husband_ the truth?” He yells, shaking with rage.

I pad small footsteps away from him, finding solace in the wall behind me. Because I’m sure I’m going to collapse, my legs can’t carry me any longer. Tiny cold beads of sweat form on my forehead. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say?” I open my palms, surrendering.

“Nothing,” he backs away, suddenly calm, “Nothing. It should be easy for you, Jo. You did it for five years.”

He goes into the bedroom, leaving me alone by the wall. I’m struggling to breathe. My head hurts, my chest hurts. I’m not sure what to do.

Appearing with a full duffel bag, he passes me, grabs his keys, and turns on his heels, voice seeping with derision. Strangely calm.

“I’m so fucking glad we didn’t have a baby, Joey,” and slams the door behind him.

I stare at it. The room’s still dark, it seems to have gone into shock. The yell of stinging words, then nothing. 

Silence.

I’m alone.

A strange sensation runs through me. I’d imagined this scenario playing out over the years with varying outcomes. In all of them I was broken, devastated by the horror of him finding out. But now, this reality just feels like relief.

The cold sweat comes back to my brow. I run to the kitchen and vomit into the sink.


	10. Ten

Eyes swollen, head pounding, curled on the couch where I spent the night. Fingers play with stray threads on cushions, pulling them until they tear tracks across the surface.

I’m supposed to be in New York for a meeting with my publisher, I call through a half-hearted apology complaining of a gastro-bug. Then I message Jen.

 **8.48 am from Joey Leery:** Dawson found out. He left last night.

 **8.49 am from Jen:** Holy Shit. Be there in 20.

I throw my phone down and contemplate freshening up before Jen arrives. I am aching, exhausted from it all. The fight, the crying, the mere thought of it makes my bones ache. I fall back into a light sleep before I hear a key in the lock.

“What the hell happened?” Jen stands before me her hands in the air.

She’s wearing workout clothes, hair tied into a tight bun, low on her neck. I suspect I’ve interrupted her morning yoga class.

Palms cover my face as I try to shrink away from having to verbalize this to anyone, even Jen.

“Dawson found out,” I say, voice small.

“Oh my God, did Pacey tell him?”

“No, god, no! It was Audrey.”

Jen nods, sits beside me, pulling the blanket up around my neck. She rubs my back as I talk.

“It was horrible, so much yelling. He’s so fucking mad. Not that I blame him.” I scratch my messed up hair, “I don’t know why I never thought he’d actually find out. Somehow I thought the secret would just stay that way, a secret, forever.”

Jen eyes me warily. “I’ve gotta be honest Jo, the second Pacey came back to town you had to expect this was a possibility, surely?”

I nod.

“Are you mad at Audrey?” she asks.

“No, she’s the only person telling the truth. I can’t really be mad at her for that.”

“Have you told Pacey yet? Dawson is going to kill him.”

“No.” I look at her with shock, the idea hadn’t really crossed my mind. “Do you think he would? No.” I try to convince myself.

“You should call Pacey, give him some warning. It’s only fair.”

I grimace.

“What? What’s going on with you two? Apart from the obvious.”

“Nothing exactly. We haven’t really spoken since we went to Capeside.” I pull my blanket up a little higher. “We had a bit of a fight.” I lie. What’s another falsehood thrown in the growing pile?

Jen shakes her head at me, “At least text him Joey, don’t leave him in the dark.”

I pick up my phone and send off a quick message.

 **10.13 am from Joey Leery:** Heads up. Audrey told Dawson what happened. He left last night. J.

I stare at the screen. I can see that he has read my message.

Those three little dots dance.

…

…

…

Then nothing.

* * *

On Saturday, you have friends, confidants, a husband. By the next Friday, you’re sitting alone in your apartment. Jen, my only ally is in Washington for work.

When events such as these happen, people must pick a side, rarely can the circle of friends continue unhindered. I’d fractured it, possibly irreparably.

Jack is screening your calls. Doug is furious to finally discover the reason for the breakdown of Pacey’s marriage. Dawson boarded the first plane to LA and has severed all lines of communication. I’m not sure if it’s appropriate to box up his things, or leave them until we officially ‘talk’. Maybe the conversation we had would be our last. But I call him, nonetheless, seeking closure, seeking familiarity, seeking the chance to apologize, properly.

Another voicemail. He is a ghost.

My other ghost still hasn’t reappeared. Pacey has answered no texts, no calls, nothing since Capeside. He conveniently found a need to return to his New York restaurant. I feel abandoned, alone. It’s just penance for my sins. I lean into it, this existence I’ve created for myself.

So, I sit in an apartment that has Dawson’s name on the lease, on a couch that he picked out, surrounded by his things. Movie posters adorn each wall, DVD’s pile to the ceiling. It’s my apartment too, but I see no traces of myself within it. I’m not sure why I never noticed it before. Apart from my books in the bookcase, you would be forgiven for thinking that Dawson lived alone.

Maybe he did.

Roused from my reverie by a sharp knock, I peel myself from my couch groove. Making my way to the door I take a second to pray to the universe, I know who I _want_ to be behind it. 

_Please._

_Please._

Eyesocket to the peephole, I squint and focus, letting my hope fall away as quickly as it comes. 

It’s Bessie.

While not my chosen prayer, it’s the next best thing. I take a deep breath. Steady myself and open the door.

“Bess, what are you doing here?” I feign surprise.

Bessie, who I’d concealed this from the longest, through fear that the only family member I had left would treat me with the same disdain as others. That she’d look at me _that way._ Forever tainted.

It was only a matter of time.

She walks through the door, looks around at the disorder, and studies me, brow furrowed.

“I think you have some explaining to do.”

I run fingers through my hair, “Bess…” I start.

“Joey, why didn’t you call me? Why do I need to hear that you and Dawson have split up from Gale of all people!”

There are wine bottles, takeout containers, blankets strewn around. I turn, embarrassed, and collect them, focusing on the mess, not the reality, not having to admit to her my misgivings.

“Joey,” Bessie places a soft hand upon my own, steading me. She takes the boxes, places them down and sits on the couch, amongst my fortress of blankets and pillows. A makeshift sleeping quarters I’d crafted for myself so I didn’t have to return to the bedroom, to _our_ bed. She points to the spot beside her and I obey, sitting.

“What happened?” she asks. Apparently, the Capeside grapevine was light on detail.

Thankfully.

“Dawson left,” I say, shame tinges my cheeks red.

“Look at you. When did this happen? You look terrible, you’ve lost weight,” she pulls my shirt out, revealing my thin frame with an abundance of excess fabric.

I sigh, turning away, avoiding the hard stares of an older, and wiser sister.

“About a week ago.”

“Did you guys have a fight, was this about LA?” She’s up, pacing now. 

“Just some old stuff from the past came up.”

“Old Stuff? What is that, Joey? What _stuff_?” Her voice shrill, invoking memories of childhood chastising.

“It doesn’t matter,” I wave her away.

“I’m just going to keep asking you, Joey. I will live here, move into your bed until you tell me.”

I laugh softly, which makes her smile.

I take a steadying breath, then another, “Something happened with Pacey.”

Bessie exhales deeply and rolls her head back, looking at me with those all-knowing eyes.

“Something so serious it made Dawson leave you?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t say I wasn’t a little concerned at his re-appearance.”

I scoff, “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

“What?”

“If I’d have been putting on bets ten years ago for future couples, I would have laid it all down on you and Pacey.”

“Well, you would have lost a lot of money,” I snap back.

She ignores me and makes a knowing shrug.

I cross my arms like a petulant child, “Well, that’s just ridiculous.”

“Is it? Really, Joey? Clearly, I was right.”

“If you thought this all these years ago, why didn’t you tell me?” I spit out.

Bessie stands in a motherly fashion and starts picking up the takeout containers. She places her nose in one, sniffs and recoils.

“And what, Jo, what would you have done? Left Dawson? I told you time and time again to go out there, explore your options, but you didn’t. You remained tethered to him, despite the fact that he was clearly wrong for you.”

“Again, you could have told me this, explicitly _years_ ago. Not just an explore your options, a ‘Joey he is not the man for you,’ might have done the trick.”

She laughs with derision, “like you would have listened.”

“See, this is the thing Bess, no one was surprised when I told them, or when they found out. Not _one_ person, apart from Dawson of course, he seemed to be in shock.”

“That’s because he’s too full of his own self-importance to ever notice anything other than how it directly relates to him. Dawson spent years melding you into his version of who he thought you should be. Your friendship with Pacey was all about you, he never asked you to be anyone else. Your relationship was organic, which makes the chemistry you two have so apparent.”

I lay down on the couch, exasperated. Confronted with the notion that my relationship, my marriage was fodder for ridicule, but also with the notion that every single word Bessie said was true. Dawson didn’t really care about _me_ , he cared about how _I_ related to _him._ It was all around me, evidenced in the apartment that was void of me.

“Imagine your whole life, Bess, your _whole life_ being told that you’re someone’s soulmate. It takes away your power to the point that you believe it. Two halves, one whole, all that bullshit.”

“Do you even believe in soulmates?” she asks.

“No.” Soulmates are fiction. Every aspect of my life proves that.

“I slept with Pacey the night before my wedding,” I say, sharp and cutting, to shock her, mad that she’s laying all this on me now.

It works. She stands, frozen, a Chinese Box in hand.

“All this time? _Years?_ ”

I nod.

“ _That’s_ why he left?”

I nod again.

She sinks back down beside me.

“I’m sorry, Jo,” she whispers.

“What are _you_ sorry for?”

She runs a hand down the side of my hair, “That’s a long time to deal with that secret, and a long time to live unhappily. I’m not saying what you did was right by any means, but I’m sure you’ve punished yourself sufficiently.”

“I deserve everything I get, Bess. They were my decisions. My decision to sleep with Pacey, my decision not to tell Dawson.”

Bessie pauses for a moment, considering, “Do you love him?”

“Who?”

“Dawson.”

Without hesitation, I answer, “No. I haven’t for a long time.”

“And Pacey?”

This time, I can’t find the answer and instead sink lower into the blankets.

* * *

Weeks later, the apartment is cleaner; I don’t sleep on the couch anymore.

I harassed Dawson’s management into giving me his new address, boxed up all his stuff, and had it shipped to LA. I cleared out all the terrible furniture that Gale had bought us when we first got married. A gaudy love seat, velvet. It belonged in a baroque castle, not in a modern apartment. Pete, a Jamaican artist who lived below, helped me to carry it down the stairs and deposit it with a ‘FREE’ sign on the sidewalk. It’s been a week, and it’s still there.

I remove the wedding photos from the walls, they leave eerie white patches below. I don’t know what to do with them, so they sit in the hall in boxes, gathering dust.

After everything is cleared out, I’m welcomed with a blank space. A couch, a television, my laptop on the floor (the coffee table was Dawson’s).

I put the coffee machine on and stand, back against the counter and check my phone for the tenth time this hour.

Nothing.

At this point everyone has found out. Everyone knows who I am. An adulterer. A cheater. My messages are always quiet now.

There is only one person I want to talk to, and I haven’t heard from him for well over a month.

The coffee is ready, I pour it into the mug, wrap my hands around the porcelain and bring it to my face. The aroma hits me. But it’s not the pleasant smokey beans that I’m used to. It’s horrible, smelling rancid, like decay. My stomach turns, I run to the bathroom, vomiting into the toilet.

This is the last straw. For some time now I’ve been struggling to keep food down. At first, I thought it was shock. That I was so repulsed by myself it manifested itself into actual illness.

No.

How much longer could I deny the thoughts that lingered in the back of my mind?

As I sat on the floor of the bathroom, I reached underneath the cupboard and pulled out a box of pregnancy tests—50 of them. IVF rounds make for a cache of pregnancy tests available at any moment of the day. I pull one out and stare at it. 

The tests themselves flood me with anxiety. 

Lines. Always one. 

Each time I’d stare at the space the other line should be and attempt to will it into existence. 

I haul myself off the floor and pee onto the stick, throwing it on the vanity. I refuse to look at it for the required two-minute wait, so I take the opportunity to brush my teeth vigorously and stare out the window. I rinse and spit, glancing ever so slightly to my right.

And there, clear as day, even from a distance, is not one, but two blue lines.


	11. Eleven

I sit on the bathroom, cold tiles beneath me, staring at that line. White plastic, four inches long, the width of my finger. How can an inanimate object in my hands mean so much? I take gulps of water from the faucet, drink until I can’t drink anymore. I need to pee again; I need to be _sure._

Fifteen minutes pass like a lifetime before I can finally produce another urine sample, and I pee onto three more sticks. Four tests seem like a nice round number for a proper analysis. One could be a false positive. Four tests don’t lie.

I line them up like soldiers on the counter. 

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

This time I watch them, but a two-minute wait isn’t required. The second line is virtually instantaneous. 

That line says Pacey. 

That line takes me to Capeside, to a car ride on a hot day, to a talk with Bessy, to drinks in a bar, to a game of fishing, to a moment in time. A moment I hide, along with all my other secrets, lined up like lines. 

* * *

We took a taxi home from the bar.

I leaned deep into the leather seats and focused on the lights passing by, blurred in my martini haze. Pacey sat back, almost horizontal, legs outstretched in the small space, his knee pressed against my own. The humidity of the day has reached its crescendo with a sullen downpour dripping in zig-zagged waves across the taxi window.

When the taxi-driver asked where we were going, there was a mutually protracted pause. 

“Um,” Pacey looked at me and shrugged.

“Well, um…”

“Do you wanna come to mine, for a nightcap?” he asked.

This, of course, like most ideas presented by Pacey, was a terrible idea. And not for the last time that night, I answered yes, when I should have answered no.

“Yeah, sure,” I said. Pacey smiled.

We pulled out the front of Pacey’s apartment, stumbling into the rain like drunken college kids. I held my handbag over my head, running to the door. This position, however, rendered my questionable balance exhausted and I tripped, falling into a bush, losing a shoe.

“Miss Potter, your grace knows no bounds,” an outstretched hand dragged me up from the scratchy leaves. My veins pulsed as his fingers took mine, a jolt of electricity. He pulled his hand back, chuckled and dove it deep into his pocket.

With one shoe under an arm, we ran undercover, sufficiently drenched. The air outside was like soup, the twisted Jasmine vine winding its way across the building emitted its heady scent. Pacey unlocked the door, and we went inside. 

Inside, there was only the gentle hum of the air-conditioner. The rain outside was merely a whisper tapping on window panes.

He went to the bathroom, got two towels and tossed one to me as he ran the other across his damp hair roughly. Finished, he threw it onto the back of a chair and walked to the kitchen, hair standing in wet clumps on their end. I gently massaged the ends of my own with a towel, then ran it across my bare arms, collecting stray drips.

Pacey took out an expensive-looking whiskey bottle and some clean glasses.

“Welcome to my humble abode, make yourself at home,” he said, effortlessly resuming the game.

He was still fishing. I was still his bait. I could feel him reeling me in. I was nearing the boat.

“It’s nice,” I played along, “a little bachelor-pad for my liking, I bet you have mood lighting and black silk sheets in the bedroom, right?” I said, instantly regretting the words.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Eyebrows waggled.

I didn’t dignify it with a response, instead kicking off my other shoe and enjoying the feel of the cool tiles beneath my feet, grounding me.

“Are you hungry? I can cook you something?”

“No, thanks.”

“Are you sure, I make a mean pasta Primavera?”

“I’m sure you can, but no. I’m good.”

He passed me the whiskey, single ice cube and swirling caramel liquid. We clinked glasses in cheers.

“To new friends,” he said, smile broad and eyes glassy. Was he swaying a little, or was it me?

All I could feel was Pacey’s presence, warm and familiar. His smell, everywhere, like the salty ocean. I wanted to lick his skin, to taste it.

Taking a deep breath to steady my heart rate, I scanned the room for a distraction.

“What’s that?” I pointed to the photograph on the fridge. A yacht, not dissimilar to True Love.

He walked over, dislodged the magnet and passed it to me.

“This is my new baby,” he smiled, “put a deposit on her last week.”

“Wow.” 

Larger than True Love, white with a black hull. The picture is from a shipyard in dry dock, still being built. The hull is complete, missing a mast and sails.

“She hasn’t seen the water yet, hopefully in a month or two.”

I ran a finger across the photograph, finding memories of running to the dock, finding True Love gone, finding _him_ gone. The realization of what I wanted a day too late. A day I sealed my fate, firmly in the arms of Dawson. 

That day was a lifetime ago, two marriages ago. Irretrievably in the past. 

“Where will you go?” I asked.

He took the picture back, placing it front and center of his stainless steel fridge and shrugged.

“Day trips for a while. Once the restaurant is up and running on its own steam, I might take a few months, find some blue waters, some white sands.”

“That sounds divine, Pace.”

“Maybe, one day,” he said, pausing, taking a sip, eyes narrowed on the photo, “you could come out for a day, help me test her out?”

The atmosphere suddenly became heavy. I reached for a lifeline to break it.

“That’s great and all, but, we just met, I’m hardly going to go out on a boat with you, alone. For all I know you could be an axe-murderer disguised as an attractive, mid-thirties bachelor.”

He turned and winked, remembering the game. The one I was done playing at least an hour ago. But the game is easier to lean into, a crutch to dissolve those laden moments where we can’t outrun our history.

“Attractive, hey?” _Of course_ , that’s the only word he heard.

I rolled my eyes, “You’re incorrigible.”

“I try,” he said before adding, “I promise, no axes on board.”

“Well then, if it’s an axe-free zone. I will certainly join you,” I said, smiling.

He laughed, but it held traces of bitterness in its notes. 

“Maybe I should have promised that all those years ago,” he said, voice low, looking into his drink, slipping out of character yet again.

I couldn’t find words for a response, instead feeling the familiar tug to run. A creaking silence ensued. Biological impulses resurface when Pacey is around. The magnetic poles, the never-ending push and pull between us.

He runs. I run. We should join a marathon and get it over with. 

But no. We stood together in his small, fancy kitchen, closer than friends should. If I outstretched an arm, it would touch him. It would fall upon his shoulder, or maybe his chest. So I kept all limbs tight by my side, clinging to my glass like a lifeline. 

I took steadying sips in the silence, watching his neck, Adam’s apple gently bobbing, covered in a fine smattering of brown stubble. 

I _should_ put my shoes back on. I _should_ go home to my own house, the one I share with my husband. I _should_ walk away from this man. 

_Shoulda. Coulda. Woulda._

Instead, I said, “Pace, pass me your phone.”

He eyed me quizzically, reached across the counter and handed it to me.

“Unlock it.”

Grinning, he obeyed.

I opened up the timer and press stop.

302 minutes, 17 seconds.

“Hey!” he saw what I was doing and grabbed for the phone. I pulled it away, “What are you doing? I’m going for a record!”

“What record?”

“Longest fish ever,” he replied smugly.

I rolled my eyes, passing him the phone back.

“I don’t want to play anymore, Pacey. I want to be us,” I gestured between us.

“Us?” he asked with a cocked eyebrow like I’m crazy, or dangerous or both.

“Joey and Pacey,” I said.

I took a step toward him.

He mirrored me, taking his own step forward.

His eyes morph to the darkest of blue-grays. I recognize those eyes, I’ve seen them before. He doesn’t blink or speak, holding my gaze.

At this point, it wouldn’t be an outstretched arm to reach him, a breath would do it. 

I repeated myself, almost in a whisper, afraid I’d lose my nerve, “I want to be _us_.”

It was all he needed to bridge the gap, to incline his head, forehead against my own, eyes hungry. I understood entirely, I was starving. He hesitated, fighting the never-ending battle with himself. I raised trembling arms around his neck, feeling the hot skin at his hairline. I looped my fingers together and pulled his lips towards mine.

Why was it always like this with him?

Like… completion.

The kiss was primal, white-hot need, snaking down my insides, pooling at my toes.

He lifted me onto the counter, velvet crush of lips and staggered breaths shared, my legs constricting around his waist, drawing him to me. It’s there I found him endlessly hard, pressing directly into my heat. Our kisses, messy and desperate, like the only kisses I’d ever known from Pacey, frenzied lips on borrowed time. I grabbed at his shirt and forcing it over his head.

Before it’s entirely off, he was back, lips on mine, tongue grazing against my own. He radiated heat, his smell more profound now, making me dizzy.

He tried to pick me up, but I lost grip and slid halfway down his torso. He fumbles with my legs and lifts me again, holding me tighter this time, and together we staggered through the hallway. I barely felt my ankle slamming a doorjamb as we pass through it.

As he carried me I pondered the scope of this development. Were we too drunk? Of course we were. But, then I had to admit that this is the whole reason I drink with Pacey. I drink to lose my inhibitions, hoping that maybe he will too. I drink so I can forget about Dawson, forget about my current life. I drink knowing that this may happen, wanting it to happen but lacking the sober courage to take action. And I drink so that I have an excuse in the morning, a reason for my behavior.

I am a terrible person.

I know.

But in that moment, wrapped around him, I couldn’t summon the will to stop.

We stumbled into Pacey’s bedroom, tumbling upon soft sheets. Fingertips grazing below my shirt, pulling it over my head, pressing his bare torso against my own. Sheer torture each time his lips left mine to remove another item of clothing, they swiftly scramble back, finding each other.

Down to my underwear, he drags his body down, taking deep breaths. Blue eyes look up at me hovering over my black lace panties.

“Jo?”

“Mmm,” is the best response I can muster.

“Are you sure about this?”

“I’m sure.”

“How sure?”

“How’s a thousand percent?”

I drew him closer, desperate to feel the fullness, to expel the heat from my veins, but he slowed. Instead, tracking a series of kisses down the side of my bare torso, a protracted, delicious torture

He bobbed his head, licked my navel and said, “That’s terrible maths, Jo.”

“Paaace,” I moaned, willing him to stop teasing.

“Okay, but if I only get you now, I’m going to take my time,” he whispered.

I groaned as he chuckled in response. Hands dancing against the lace of my panties, tips of fingers trailing a path further south. Legs falling open, fingertips tracking back and forth, feeling the wetness that was soaking my underwear. His thumb circled my aching bead of flesh through the fabric. The roughness of it, the unbearable friction made me arch in delight, white-knuckled, gripping Pacey’s sheets. The sheets were black, just as I suspected.

Rearranging himself between my legs, a hand steadied my hip as the other pulled the lace to one side. A gentle breath against me, hovering so close, I writhed, a puddle of anticipation. It seemed an eternity before he finally lowered his lips, taking long lazy licks across the length of my slit. He groaned, heavy and guttural as he ended his travels against my clit, pursing his lips around it, drawing it in and flicking it with his tongue. He took his time, painfully lapping before drawing it more firmly in his lips. I could feel the warmth building deep in my belly, faster than I’d ever known. 

When a finger entered, edging its way inside, a gradual coaxing morphed to sodden thrusts, it was clear I could hold on no longer. Fingernails raking through his scalp, I dragged him closer. With this, his tongue became more insistent, the prickles of stubble against me, feeling the orgasm tearing through my veins as I pulsed uncontrolled around his finger. The waves of pleasure peaked and receding, left me panting and limp under him. He waited until my throws subsided before crawling back up my body, face back to my own.

He kissed with purpose, lips tasting of me, stubble still wet from my pleasure. I pulled at his jeans, which somehow had remained on in this interlude. They felt even tighter than before. He helped with the button, slid the zipper, pulled them down, letting his boxer briefs follow. 

I could only see glimmers of his outline in the dark room, the lines of the muscles on his neck, his torso, his cock springing forth. Paying homage, I reached down, feeling the weight of him in my palms, the growl of his voice, pulling back and forth, swirling a wet finger across the tip. Pacey cupped my hair in his hands, tucked an errant strand behind my ear and gazed down at me. Positioning himself between my legs he gradually slipped back and forth between my wet folds. A torturous wait before he finally dropped his hips, slowly sinking inside, filling me. 

Cries of pleasure tumbled in the darkness.

I lost myself in Pacey that night, and it was the best moment of five years of my life.


	12. Twelve

The obstetrician’s office is littered with spliced models of the human reproductive system. While I lay on the table awaiting her return, I stare at the model of the female pelvis, little beans morphing into babies inside. My heart rate quickens just looking at it. Reaching down to spin my wedding ring, a nervous trait, I find nothing on the finger, a bare circle of white skin, a slight indent from years of wear.

The door clicks open and she reappears, positioning herself on the swivel chair beside me. She takes the ultrasound wand in her hand, depositing the freezing cold jelly on my abdomen. 

I’m silent. 

“You can breathe,” she reassures me with a smile, and I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

She resumes her search of my insides, settling on a small mass of black inside a bigger mass of gray on the monitor. None of it resembles anything I’d expected.

“There’s the little nugget,” she points to the screen.

It’s a dot, a white dot, but it’s moving. Vibrating back and forth, wriggling. A heartbeat.

“102 beats per minute,” she says.

“How many weeks?” I ask because I’ve never done this before, never got this far. I need to know for sure. 

She measures both sides of it with a ruler device on the screen, then clicks away at her keyboard one-handed.

“I would say somewhere between seven, eight weeks.”

I nod, letting the words sink in. Of course, I know the date, but hearing her confirmation helps to confront this new reality.

“Why now? Why after all the failed IVF rounds, does it happen now?” I shake my head, confused by it all.

She shrugs, “I wish I knew, if I knew I’d be the richest obstetrician in the world. Sometimes, the anatomy stars align at just the perfect time in just the perfect settings. Your ovulation was probably still stimulated from all the injections. I see it often, when you stop trying, you relax, and nature does what it knows best.”

With a few more clicks of her keyboard, the printer whirs and she passes me three stills of the ultrasound before wiping the jelly from my stomach.

“Dawson will be thrilled, I bet,” she says, turning off the monitor.

I hesitate for a moment. Of course she thinks it’s Dawson, she’s been here through all of this with us. Why wouldn’t it be Dawson?

I don’t know what to say. Which happens when I have to say these things to people I know, then the way they look at me changes. I’m tainted in their eyes.

Like Jack, like Bessie, even Jen sometimes.

“Dawson and I aren’t together, this isn’t…” I don’t finish the sentence, but she nods, understanding, a little O forming on her lips.

“Well, that explains it all the more. Different couple, different circumstances.”

I smile as much as I can muster.

“Try to be happy Joey, maybe it’s not the path you envisioned for your family, but it will be your family, in just shy of eight short months.”

I thank her and leave the offices in a daze. That’s the problem, I am happy, happier than I’ve been in years. But that happiness hinges on telling one person about this life inside of me, and now I just need to find him. 

On the drive home, the word she said floats around in my head, it’s one that I never really thought of with Pacey, but I enjoy the way it sounds, I say it out loud.

“Family.”

* * *

I turn up at Jen’s door and knock.

She lives only ten minutes walk from my own. As I approach the entrance, I step over pink bikes strewn across the path and a helmet beside a pot plant.

I can hear the kids running around on creaking floorboards, fighting.

The door opens, “Joey?” Jen looks surprised. I rarely do day visits. “Come in, come in.”

We walk through the hallway, dodging toys and a box of opened raisins towards the kitchen.

“Do you want a coffee?”

I shake my head.

“What’s going on?” She turns and studies me, “Are you okay?”

I shake my head again.

Jen takes my hand, pulling me into her office, a small room just off the kitchen. She closes the door and locks it.

“This is the only room in the house with a proper lock. The kids can’t get to us here.”

I lean against her desk.

“Is it Dawson? Did something happen?”

I’m afraid. Scared to tell her. Jen is the only friend who is still speaking to me. Once I tell her the truth, I fear she’ll cut me off too.

“I’m pregnant.”

Her hands fly to her open mouth in shock, “Oh my god, Joey! Really?”

I nod. She wraps me in the tightest hug, the hug only a friend could give after being by my side after all the disappointment and difficulty of trying for a baby for so long. The waves of her blonde locks tickle at my face and I hug her back.

“I’m so happy for you,” her eyes mist and she swipes at them, “Have you told Dawson?” she asks.

I pause, shaking my head, “It’s not Dawson’s.”

“Oh?”

I nod.

“Pacey?” she asks.

I nod again.

Jen stares at me, eyes bulging, “When?”

“The night he took me to Capeside.”

“You casually left that out when you told me about that day,” she says, a little bitterly.

“We got very drunk. Very drunk. I wasn’t exactly proud of it. And it happened just before Dawson found out about the night before the wedding, so everything kind of became a blur. I haven’t heard from Pacey since. He’s been avoiding me completely. I don’t know what to do!” Tears form, and I pull at my face in frustration.

“Relax,” she stops me, wraps her arms around my shoulders and pulls me close. “You are going to be fine, this is fine, Joey. He’s probably staying away from you because he’s ashamed of what happened. But you need to tell him, Jo. He needs to know this.”

She releases her grasp, pulls out her phone and starts scrolling. Jen is a do-er. She takes action. I feel powerless. Shame does that, it eats at you until you lose confidence. It makes you want to burrow inside, hide from the world, hide from yourself.

The phone is to her ear. I can only hear her side of the conversation.

_Hey._

_I’m good, you?_

_It’s Gracie’s birthday next Friday, just wondering if you are in Boston at the moment, if you can come?_

_Oh, really? Great._

_I’ll be coming past your restaurant tonight, how about I drop in the official invite, will you be there?_

_Okay, great, see you later._

She hangs up and looks at me.

“He’s there, go tonight.”

* * *

Alone, sitting on the gutter, I wait for him. Wait for the restaurant to close, for him to count the final takings, help place all the chairs on tables. 

It’s dark, the evening still warm. Wearing just a white t-shirt and jeans, I realize I forgot to brush my hair this morning, so I pull an elastic from my wrist and flick it into a bun. Staring up at the black sky, I search for a place that stars should be, but they are thwarted from shining by the city lights. I pick at the skin on my fingers, digging into them, a pit of dread resting at the bottom of my stomach, churning.

Nerves or not, I need to do this. He needs to know.

Finally, the door opens, Pacey exits out with a short brunette. She calls out goodbye and walks to a white Camry as Pacey locks up.

He turns and pauses, recognizing me, even in the darkness.

“Just a regular Thursday night for you hey, hanging in the gutter?” he teases and folds himself in half to sit beside me, nudging my arm lightly but not making eye contact.

He’s nervous. So am I. There is a lot to be nervous about.

“Let me guess, Jen’s phone call was reconnaissance?” he asks.

“Something like that,” I say and turn toward him, “Do you realize how horrible it feels knowing you answered Jen’s call, not my own? That I’m here, having to stalk you out in the first place,” I question, staring at his face, imploring him for answers.

He hangs his head and studies the asphalt.

“Jo. What option did I have?”

“You could stop running away and talk to me.”

“I’m not running away.”

I raise my eyebrows at him, challenging his statement.

He exhales and faces the sky, “I didn’t mean to do this. To come back and ruin everything. I’m attempting to distance myself from the situation, for fear of any more carnage.”

“Why did you come back into our lives if you were just going to cut us off again? It’s not fair on anyone. Why, Pace? And don’t say just for the business.”

“I thought five years would be enough. I was under the misguided notion that five years would somehow void everything and I could come back, and have the old gang of friends in my life and just be Pacey.” He pauses, “But it seems I’m back and have made things worse if that was even possible.”

I don’t speak, just waiting for him to continue.

“I am a terrible friend to you - to Dawson, to _everyone_. I’ve broken up my marriage because of it and now probably yours.” He runs his hand through his hair, frustration in his tone. “I’m so fucking ashamed of myself, I’m embarrassed. That’s why I’m avoiding you, Jo. I’m sorry. But I can’t be around you, I’m like a fucking wrecking ball. I can’t do this anymore.”

I fight back the tears.

“Why can’t you be around me?” comes out as a whisper.

He groans, exasperated, “You know why.”

“Why?” the word exits my mouth loudly now, desperate. I need to hear his answer. Our relationship is built on these secrets, on fleeting moments of passion that steamroll the friendship and at the end of the day, is that all it is? Snatched flashes of lust that do nothing but decimate relationships?

“We keep playing these games together and ending up in the bedroom. I try so fucking hard to just be your friend. I’ve only been back for four months, for God’s sake. But you’re _you_ and there is clearly something between us we can’t seem to suppress. I find myself thinking about you all the time. You’re incredible, Jo, you’re smart and funny and you’re beautiful and I love you,” he stands up from the gutter and starts pacing, “I don’t know how to stay away, so it’s easier for me, better for everyone if I just, I don’t know, have a clean break… again?”

It was almost lost in a flurry of words, but it was there.

_Love._

My hands shake and I clasp them together. I needed to hear that, to know I wasn’t crazy. 

He felt it too.

I don’t know what to say. We seem to keep bouncing back to each other at each turn, I convinced myself it was one sided. Five years, over 1800 days, and I still think about him every single day.

Pacey continues, “Not long after your wedding Audrey started to suspect something was wrong. She couldn’t believe that I’d willingly leave my best friend’s wedding to be with her and her mother in LA. So I told her what happened between us, but I said that it meant nothing to me.” He stops, takes a steadying breath and sighs, “She’s not stupid, she knew. But you know how determined Audrey can be. So we ran back to New York, and I promised to repair it. Her caveat for staying with me was that I sever all contact with you. Which, at the time, made sense. You were starting your life with Dawson, coming back could ruin everything.”

“But it didn’t work? You couldn’t repair it?” I ask.

“No. After you lose someone’s trust like that, well, it’s hard to get it back. Everything was tainted with what happened between us.”

I stare at the road, fully comprehending how much pain I caused in their marriage, not just my own. He stops pacing and bends down beside me again, sitting a little further away this time.

“When you sent me the text that Audrey had told Dawson, I wasn’t surprised. I knew when I saw her at Dawson’s party that it was a likelihood. She may have moved on, but the anger was still there, at me and at you too. Can’t say I blame her.”

We sit in silence. Processing, assessing the destruction in our wake. But from that destruction, a life was created, and I need to tell him. I need to be brave.

“Pacey, you can’t keep running away from me. Ghosting me won’t make me disappear.”

“I won’t Jo. You know the whole truth now. I have got nothing to run from.”

“You better not, because I have to tell you something.”

“Yeah?”

I practice the words in my head for a moment, before letting them fall from my lips. When they come, they’re surprisingly easy to say.

“I’m pregnant.”

He freezes, staring at me.

“Wow,” he stutters, “Congratulations.”

My heart beats so loud I’m sure he can hear it over the sounds of the city at night.

He places his hand gently on my leg, expression inscrutable, “There you go, Jo, now I _need_ to leave. I need to be out of the picture so you and Dawson can raise your baby.”

“Pacey,” I pause and take his hand, “I haven’t slept with Dawson in over eleven months. Our last IVF round was nearly five months ago. I’m eight weeks pregnant.”

His eyelashes flutter as he calculates in his head.

“Pacey, the baby is yours.”

He covers his cheeks with his hands and peers up to the absent stars.

My heart is in my throat, waiting for a reaction in the silence.

He finally looks at me, blue eyes in the dim streetlight.

“You’re serious?”

I nod.

“Dawson and I are over. We ended it. He’s gone. It’s done. To be honest, it’s been done for a long time. Long before he left.”

His hands run up and down his legs over and over, processing.

The truth was, I hadn’t thought past telling Pacey. All I knew is that he needed to know. He was part of this madness whether he liked it or not. What came next was a mystery.

“But I thought you couldn’t…?” he hesitates.

“Get pregnant?” I say and shrug. There was never a diagnosed ‘problem’ it just was a problem, conceiving. Maybe all along, the universe knew that with Dawson it just wasn’t right?

But I don’t say that. Everything is too fresh, too raw.

“I want this baby, I _am_ going to do this and it would be nice if you were around.”

Pacey looks wounded, but his eyes hold mine with sincerity, “I am not going anywhere.”

I stare at him.

“I swear, Jo.”

He smiles, reaching over and taking my hand in his. The pads of his fingertips tour the back of my knuckles, tracing the dips and curves. I can almost hear the thoughts ruminating in his head, absorbing all of this new information. 

“Are you okay? Do you feel okay?” He asks.

“I’m fine, a little nauseated when I don’t eat, but otherwise fine.”

“What is it with us? We seem to do everything backwards, sideways, every way but the right way?”

“I don’t know. We’re not linear, that’s for sure.”

Pacey’s fingers continue to circle, and I momentarily forget that we’re sitting in a gutter, in the dark. Two adulterers, having to deal with the realities of their lies, and this was only the beginning.

I reach into my pocket, pulling out the small printout from the ultrasound. Black and white fuzziness of a life growing inside me. Passing it to Pacey, he holds it up to the streetlight and focuses. 

“Beautiful,” he says, unable to tear his eyes away. It’s only a gray mass with a blip of a white dot, but he doesn’t seem to care. That blip has a heartbeat. It’s going to be a baby.

Our baby.

“Keep it, I have a copy.”

He stares for a little longer before placing it in his top pocket.

“So what are we going to do here?” he asks tentatively.

“I have no idea.”

He laughs, and I can’t help but follow. This situation is so awkward it borders on ridiculous. I guess all we can do is laugh.

He settles, “Is it bad that I feel both terrible and fantastic at the same time?”

“I know the feeling.”

On paper, my life is falling apart, but I’m happy for the first time in a long time.

Pacey hesitates for a moment, bringing my hand to his face, “I feel more fantastic than terrible," he whispers against my knuckles and presses warm lips to my hand.

“Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the ending of Part One of this series. I’ll be back with Part Two Soon as there is much more of this story to tell. Thank you so much for all your comments and kudos, it has been a great inspiration to keep going.


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